Soul of Fire, Heart of Steel
by Turock
Summary: Revenge: his singular mission in life, driving him to the brink of insanity, enslaving him to a sadistic woman's own quest for blood. Can a young tagalong set him free to live again, or will his madness destroy her as well? Voldo, Ivy, Cervantes, OC, etc
1. Storm

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Voldo, Namco does. But I do own a little Todd McFarlan figurine of him... that counts, doesn't it? Of course I'm not trying to steal profit where profit is due, of course I'm not genius enough to make up characters as cool as the ones in Soul Calibur, yadda yadda... I have no money. Please don't sue me. -_

**Summary: **_Voldo treks across the European countryside seeking vengance for his long-lost wife. Little does he know his guide, Ivy Valentine, has a few old scores to settle as well. But a surprise appearance by Cervantes' youngest daughter, spoilt Ignazia deLeon, throws a kink in both their plans._

_Sorry about the long interem between updates. For those of you who have been keeping up, I love you! You should start reading from the end of chapter 3. The rest of you, please enjoy! I do have the whole plot written in my head, so I promise I'll finish this thing!_

_Cookies for all who review!_

* * *

Sunlight exploded over the trees along the rocky coastline. Its rays stretched like a mother's arms, embracing the sleepy creation beneath it, gently coaxing it awake from its slumber. Birds, always the first to respond, began to chirp from their perches, their voices raspy from rest. Other creatures, stirred by the morning chorus, stretched their lazy bodies and began to scurry about under the sun, anxious to begin the day's game of eating and being eaten.

Morning light reached out to another sleeping creature. Its warmth burnt the unnaturally pale skin on his back. The sweet avian harmonies rang as an abrasive alien cacophony in his keen ears. The vibrations from bestial squirming, crawling and quarreling set his nerves on high alert. For one terrible moment, Voldo forgot where he was. Grabbing his trusted scissor blades, his only loyal companions, he jumped up, sending out an eruption of fleeing birds and creatures. His eyes were wide open, yet they might as well have been missing entirely. Surrounded by light and color, Voldo lived in a world of perpetual darkness.

Struggling to calm his rapid breaths and excited heartbeat, Voldo welcomed the recollection of his surroundings. He sat back down heavily, allowing the distant melodic rush of tide to soothe his mind. Tide… something familiar. For countless years he heard its ghostly echoes inside the cave he had called home. Now it remained his strongest source of constancy in this new world of chaos and he hated to leave it behind. But something stronger than comfort and familiarity goaded him on his journey. Something more insistent than his need to understand, even to survive entwined itself around his heart like tentacles, dragging him along to a mysterious destination.

But not just yet. Still exhausted from a night of troubled sleep, Voldo lay back and closed his useless eyes. Yes, travel could wait for a few hours. It had already waited for many years, perhaps decades. His days in the dank loneliness of that pit seemed to melt together in his mind and left him with no concept of time past. It seemed a short while from the time his aged master sealed them both in that vast underground treasure chamber to the day the senile old fool finally died, leaving Voldo completely alone. After that… well, it was probably best to forget just what it felt like to lose his sanity. Why had Master trapped him down there in the first place? Another thing Voldo couldn't remember. Had it been for protection? Punishment? Revenge?

REVENGE. The word repeated in his mind as it had ever since he relearned how to speak. That word invigorated him, electrified him, tantalized him. That was the reason he left his confines in the first place. Now he remembered. He remembered his reaction to that strange and sudden visitor: torment on the one hand for allowing an intruder into Master's sanctuary, and on the other, anticipation of nourishing human contact… and human flesh. He remembered how he had surprised her in the darkness, how he lunged, blades thirsty for blood. He remembered the shockwave of her words that overcame his body, that slammed into him like a stone wall, that crushed him into the ground and erased all other thoughts, replacing them with one overbearing overwhelming obsession: REVENGE!

He had killed hundreds of others more intimidating than she, other stronger invaders with huge weapons and muscles to match. But she had destroyed his deadly rage without a single blow, cut him off at the knees by uttering those four precious words… Now wholly unable to return to sleep, Voldo chuckled to himself as he appreciated the irony. Having lived in silent wordlessness for so long, having even forgotten how to speak, it was nothing short of miraculous that he had understood her at all. Voldo yawned as he stretched his travel-weary muscles and scratched at sun-scorched skin. It had only been a few days since he entered the foreign world outside his doorway and now she, his guiding angel, had seen fit to give him a destination and a purpose: Kill the challenger who awaits you at the nearest village. He would accomplish this first goal by nightfall tomorrow. He stooped to collect his meager belongings and set off on stiff legs, shivering as those four words once again gave him power and pushed him along his way. As he journeyed farther into the world of darkness that awaited him, he repeated them once more in his heart: _Your wife is alive!_

* * *

Ignazia Alejandra Espinosa deLeon's stomach heaved and churned in crude mimicry of the ocean she traveled. Her head swam with curses for the situation she had somehow fallen into. Surely she had chosen the ricketiest of her father's ships on which to make her escape. She cursed her initial excitement over this God-forsaken voyage. "An adventure!" she sneered to herself, the very words tasting like vomit as they dribbled from her mouth. How she hated the sea! She hated the stench of salt and dead fish, loathed the din of those vulgar sailors as they ran about on the deck above her head. Above all, she detested the darkness of the claustrophobic storage cabin that had already served as her home for the past… how long had it been? A year? Six months? No, it couldn't have been more than a few weeks. Or was it days? 

Tears flowed freely down her dirty cheeks and plopped onto her rumpled, once-regal dress. If Father saw her in this state, he would give her such a scolding! But, as it was, she would gladly have accepted a thousand punishments if it meant she did not have to endure one more day on this cursed craft.

So, why did she not just go home?

An image of Charles flashed before her mind's eye. She promptly became violently ill on the floor. "Disgusting!" she coughed, frantic to rub off the bit of bile that had splattered on her skirt. What sins had she committed to warrant such conditions?!

Stomach woes temporarily forgotten, Ignazia began to nurse a different type of pain. _Why did Father promise me to such a common twit as Charles?! He's positively plain and boring. And that laughable excuse for a mustache! It's unforgivable!_ Her brow furrowed as a fresh wave of rage washed over her heart. _Father knew I had my eye set on that charming Bohemian prince, yet he accepted chicken-chested Charles' pitiful dowry and didn't even ask me first! Unforgivable. That is why I ran._

Her expression softened a bit as she thought about her father. Without her, he would have no one to take care of him, no one to talk to or laugh with, no one to advise him on the color choice of his outfits. Her mother died shortly after she was born, so Ignazia filled her shoes, providing emotional support to the noble warrior in his aging years. She couldn't help but smile to herself as she thought about her father's coarse battle-hardened demeanor, which she knew to be a mere façade, a mask she broke through as effortlessly as only a cherished daughter could. She had him wrapped around her little finger!

At least, she thought she did until that accursed _Charles_ came into the picture! She scowled again as she asked herself, _Why him?!_ Of course, no man on earth could resist her mischievous garnet eyes, framed so perfectly by the shimmering midnight of her curly locks and sparkling against the canvas of a flawless olive complexion. She sighed, contemplating her own stunning beauty. She was used to men fawning over her, relished every minute of it, in fact, but a woman of her social status could afford to be picky about her suitors! And she received far more desirable offers than Charles' from peasants on a daily basis! She knew her father well enough to deduce that it was something more than the British buffoon's money he was after. Charles was merely a viscount, for God's sake! Her father's estate was easily triple the size of the Englishman's. So, what could possibly have prompted her father to make such a rash – not to mention inconvenient -- decision?

Footsteps on the creaky ladder silenced her self-pity and snapped her mind to attention. Snatching one glimpse before shrinking behind a barrel, she could just make out the face of a youthful sailor, illuminated by a small oil lamp. She heard him scuffle around, falling over his own feet, frantically examining several storage containers. A command from outside made its way down into the storeroom. "Anything at all we can toss overboard! Anything we won't be needin'!"

"I know, I know!" the young soldier barked, stress evident in his voice. Ignazia couldn't help but wonder what he was so worried about. Her curiosity carried her just high enough to peek back over the top of her barrel. The man faced her direction, his attentions fixated on something beside her, lower than her… A sideways glance brought her focus to the sizable puddle of her own stomach contents glistening like jewels in the lamp's light. _Ignazia, you fool!!_ She gasped as she dropped behind the barrel again.

"I-i-is someone there?" squawked the sailor's cracking voice. "M-my sword is drawn! Show yourself or I'll have to kill you!" Ignazia was petrified with fear. _If he finds me, he's sure to recognize me and my father probably has an entire fleet out looking for me by now! I'll be sent back to Spain for sure! Oh what a burden it is to be such a recognizable and beloved figure… wait, what am I saying?_

"Show yourself!" demanded the sailor in a loud threatening voice, accompanied by an even louder and more threatening thwack of his sword against her barrel. Ignazia screamed in spite of herself and threw her hands up. "Wait! Steady on! Don't hurt me!" She arose and turned to face her discoverer, hoping beyond hope that he was an ignorant foreigner or blind—or both! No such luck. Upon seeing her face, the poor man couldn't decide whether to jump in surprise or bow in submission. Finally, he managed to sputter out, "L-lady Ignazia! What are you doin--?"

"Please don't send me back to Spain! I'm really supposed to be here! My father wished for me to go to abroad in order to—to--…" she interrupted, trying desperately to concoct a convincing lie.

"Beggin' your pardon, Milady, but you're in grave danger down here! The storm's tossin' water into the ship faster than we can toss it back out again!"

Storm? Only now did Ignazia hear the drumming of torrential rain, the banshee howls of the wind and the booming of the thunder above decks. Hmm, she thought the ship had been rocking quite a bit more than usual.

"Please, Milady, you've gotta get above decks! The Captain will make sure you get to a safer place!" the sailor exclaimed, extending his hand.

She refused it, screaming, "No! No one else must know I'm here!"

"Listen to me! It's for your own--!"

A deafening crack overhead silenced them both. Amidst the yells of the men, Ignazia could hear an eerie moan that was definitely not man-made. Something inside her compelled her to back away. A split-second later, the flaming mast exploded through the ceiling, sending a torrent of water, fire and sharp wooden splinters sailing like arrows towards her. In another second, the massive rain-soaked sail smashed her down onto the ground, crushing her breath away. Its weight paralyzed her, rendering her unable to respond to the sailors' muffled screams or to escape the unbearable heat of the fire. Above the chaos, her mind clearly demanded, _God, I hope I'm not laying in my throw-up!_ Beneath her, the ship gave a horrifying shudder and another unearthly groan of defeat. Instantly, frigid water rushed in on her from all directions, robbing her of her remaining breath.

Next thing she knew, she was moving, rushing, tumbling out in the icy wetness. She felt she was free of the compressing tonnage of the sail, but the weight of her dress was pulling her down into insubstantial nothingness. Her face broke in and out of the water, allowing her a few staggering breaths and a blurry glimpse of the flaming ship, now impossibly far away. She thought she could hear someone calling her name. Wishful thinking. Thunder and wind drowned out all other sounds as the incessant waves rudely slapped her in the face.

"Father!" Ignazia coughed just before the angry ocean engulfed her and choked away her world.

* * *

Dead?! How can it be?! Cervantes deLeon clutched his head, nearly tucking it between his knees as he felt the weight of his sorrow imploding him. 

"My crew searched for an entire day, my Lord. We found no trace, either alive or… otherwise. I'm dreadfully sorry, Señor deLeon."

"Dead?" Cervantes managed to whisper. In his youth, he would have ordered this captain executed—would have killed the bringer of bad news himself. Now, however, Cervantes found himself incapacitated with grief. He knew it wasn't his cargo captain's fault. That insolent, pig-headed , brilliant, beautiful girl… his daughter… dead. What was she thinking, stowing away on that ship?! If she wanted to see Italy, all she had to do was say the word and—but it wasn't her fault either. "My fault" Cervantes breathed, as he realized the horrid truth. He should have broken the marriage proposal on her gently. He knew the consequences of her terrible temper, her spoiled stubbornness.

"It could be, Sir…" the captain's voice trailed off with a hint of hopefulness. Cervantes' eyes shot up to the captain's pensive face. The seaman continued, thoughtfully, "We lost her very near the coast of Naples, Sir. Waves that strong could have carried her to land. At least, there is a chance that… hmmm…"

"Organize a search crew immediately. Leave no stone unturned, no shore overlooked," Cervantes ordered, the usual timbre returning to his quavering voice. "Do not give up until you find her."

"Aye, Sir," the captain bowed low to the kneeling cavalier and hurried out of Cervantes' chambers to leave him alone with his thoughts. After all, the only person he knew who possessed a more fiery temper than Cervantes was his aptly named daughter.

After allowing several moments to catch his breath, Cervantes arose and paced around his room. "It will have been several days since they lost her," he spoke aloud, trying to reassure himself of his daughter's safety. "She is strong and strong-willed. She, of all people, will have been able to survive. I _know_ this, but…" Once again, he felt his aged legs tremble, threatening to collapse like wet noodles under him. "If she is dead… what will I do? She will not—I can not—the Sword will—_the Sword_!" The words hit him like a slug in the face and his legs gave in. Adrenaline propelled him back up again and launched him over to his bedside chest. Nimbly, his arthritic fingers worked the complex locks that secured the covering in place. _The Sword will know! The Sword will tell me how to find her!_ He threw back the lid and stood in awe of a sight he hadn't beheld in years.

The Sword. The Soul Edge. That accursed-blessed demon weapon. Nearly as long as a full-grown man, the ancient blade was a tangle of twisted, razor-sharp metal entwined and enslaved by some alien flesh-like substance that reminded Cervantes of the veins and innards of a beast. It stank of rotten corpses and its perpetually, supernaturally sharp edges were stained brown with the blood of countless victims. It lay there in its box like a man in a coffin, staring up at the nobleman with its single, overgrown, lifeless eye. Ah, but Cervantes remembered a time when that eye blinked of its own will, glistened with hatred, twitched and dilated and focused, always searching for a new victim, a new soul to ensnare inside its own wicked, pulsating corpus. Cervantes grasped the hilt, shivering as its electric power surged through his own body. He exhaled as his arm once again remembered the sword's weight. With some effort, he brought the demon-sword up to his own face, ignoring the putrid stench. Staring right into its marble eye, he commanded, "Find her! My daughter—our daughter is lost, but you would not let her die. Show her to me!"

Cervantes waited. He knew he would not get a response. The one and only time the creature inside that sword opened its mouth was 17 years ago. "This is _my_ child" it had said. "Kill her and I will kill you and your entire nation! Raise her with my guidance and you will receive your reward." Cervantes deLeon had waited too long, sacrificed too much for his reward to be snuffed away by teenage foolishness and a storm at sea.

After several silent minutes, Cervantes sighed heavily and dropped the Sword back into its resting place with a thud. He secured the lid, grimacing as he imagined closing his own daughter's casket. He had invested too much, become too attached for his foolish teenager to be snuffed away by the storms of his own selfishness.


	2. Dangerous Savior

Ignazia lay on strange sand, unable to move. She had only recently regained consciousness, and her head was still spinning from the tossing and churning out in the waves. She had no idea how long she had lain on the beach, where on Earth she was, or how she even got there in the first place. All she knew for sure was that she was alone… _completely_ alone. She wanted to search for other people, or at least yell for help, but her lungs burnt too badly and her legs were like putty. She felt almost as sick as she smelled. A tear trickled down her cheek as she closed her eyes and contemplated her miserable death out in the wilderness. She could see the angels, pinching their ethereal noses as they carted her corpse up to Heaven. And there was Saint Peter, fumbling through the Book of Life, trying to suppress giggles as other saints peered at her with slack jaws and whispered nasty things about her ripped skirts and the seaweed in her hair. The Good Lord Himself just shook his head and clucked his tongue as if to say "Who invited _this_ cretin?"

Rage brought Ignazia's head out of the clouds. _Is _that_ what this is all about?_ Her mind demanded. Fury coursed through her veins like fire and propelled her to sit upright. "You've done this to me as a joke, just so you can get the last laugh, haven't you!?" she blasted hoarsely up to Heaven. "I've spent all my _life_ going to that boring ole' Mass and this is how you repay me?!" The mention of Mass flooded her mind with images of her church… of home… of Father.

"It wasn't my fault I ran away," she whimpered guiltily. "They _made_ me! Papá should have known better. He's so selfish! And that ghastly Charles…" The bitterness crept back into her voice as she once again shook her fist at the Diety. "_You_ knew this was going to happen! In fact, you probably placed the idea into both their silly heads! DIDN'T YOU?!

…I _hate_ you!"

The volcano inside her soul erupted, launching her onto her unsteady feet. "IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU!" she spewed, jumping up and down in frustration. Something in her knee popped and she crumpled down onto her face, sobbing. "It's not fair! It's not _fair_!" she wailed pitifully and pummeled the sandy ground. "I'm the daughter of the most powerful Cavalier in Spain! I'm the most beautiful lady in all of Europe—the world! I am not supposed to die like _this_… No-one even knows I am here!" At that, she hurled two great handfuls of sandy pebbles into the dark thicket.

Something furry burst out, whining and sneezing the dust out of its nose. Ignazia was so startled that she completely forgot about her tantrum. "Why, it's a doggy!" she exclaimed as the beast paced menacingly under a Mediterranean fern. Flies buzzed around the matted fur splayed about its jutting ribs. Its eyes greedily fixed upon her as it licked a bit of foam from its tooth-filled jaws. "Oh, what a sweet puppy!" Ignazia cooed.

This was wonderful! She had heard all kinds of stories about heroic animals whose selfless actions had saved the lives of sick or endangered humans. How fortunate she was to meet such an angelic creature! The canine emitted a low gutteral growl as it edged away slightly. "Come here, dog!" Ignazia ordered. "You are to take me to where the humans live!" She tried to stand, but found that her knee was stiffly locked into place. No worries! Her new friend would drag her to safety!

"Won't you, dog?" Ignazia puffed as she dragged her body across the sand towards the canine. Suddenly, four other dogs sauntered out of the brush, each one mangier than the one before it. Ignazia was overjoyed as the beasts slowly circled her. "You called your friends to help me too? What a good doggy!" Ignazia smiled widely as she extended her hand towards the first dog. Its black lips parted, returning Ignazia's smile with immense yellow fangs. _How precious_ she thought to herself as she stretched her hand out a bit farther. She'd be on her way back to civilization in no time! _If I can just take hold of it…_

The dog lunged. Ignazia had just enough time to jerk her hand back before the toothy monster could rip it from her arm. In a heartbeat, the rest of the animals followed their leader, leaping in to devour their helpless victim. But Ignazia wasn't so helpless. Adrenaline straightened her legs and propelled her body upwards. She tried to run, but the dogs gripped her skirts, leashing her in place. The big first one snapped viciously up at her torso as she screamed and slapped at its face. "GET OFF!! GET OFF!!" she shrieked as her fear-fueled legs churned uselessly against the sand. _The dress! Rip off the dress!_ her brain demanded. "NO! Father gave it to me!" she cried out in response.

The big dog lunged again and latched its jaws around Ignazia's bodice. RIP!! Ignazia shot into the air as fabric tore from her body. Before she even knew what happened, momentum flung her into the forest. The sand in her eyes rendered her nearly blind as she pounded through the underbrush. Gnarled roots reached to ensnare her legs and exotic fronds smacked her face as she fled. She whipped her head back to catch a glimpse of her panting attackers. Several of the brutes still gnawed on bits of her skirt as they ran. _BASTARDS! That dress was expensi--!_

"AIIIIIEEEEE!!" The ground fell out from under her feet. The world spun and bounced and flogged her from all directions as she rolled down a rocky hill. "Pshew!" she sputtered as she slammed on her back and skidded to a halt. Dazed and dizzy, she stared up at the lavender sky through a clearing in the trees. One of the mangy animals plummeted towards her in slow motion. Its huge claws extended to crush her chest; its red mouth gaped to engulf her head. For once in her life, Ignazia felt eerily resigned and she sighed, _Oh, for goodness' sake, just do this quickly... and don't destroy my face…_

Suddenly, the dog was beside her, yelping in pain! Ignazia caught a golden glimmer out of the corner of her eye, then something warm splattered all over her face, burning her eyes. She heard barking and a lot of heavy thuds all around her, but the animal beside her lay silent. A couple of seconds later, all she could hear were the distant squawks of birds disturbed by the fleeing dogs… and heavy breathing a few yards away.

* * *

Ignazia lay on her back, astonished, and stared up at the most beautiful creature she had ever seen... sort of. Sunlight gleamed a brilliant aura around the silhouetted figure that towered over her. Blood dripped from his strange triple-bladed scissor hands. Ignazia's heart raced in fear, feeling his massive presence swallow up the entirety of the forest around them. Never before had she felt so insignificant. _An angel!_

Her savior stooped beside her and out of the sun, affording her a better view. His fashionably pale skin rippled with lean muscle, all of it perfectly visible through the gaps in his outlandish clothing. What looked like it was once a regal outfit was now nothing more than brightly colored strips of leather and fabric wrapped tightly around his body, fastened with intricately carved buckles of gold and brass. An equally intricate mask concealed his face, neutralizing his expression and making him seem ten times more intimidating.

Ignazia felt as though she was caught up in a dream. Her heart fluttered and her body was paralyzed. The figure's breaths hissed deeply through the mouth opening in his mask. In slow motion he lowered one of his long-fingered hands toward her face... slowly... slowly... Ignazia was powerless to do anything besides gasp when it finally collided heavily with her face. But no sooner had it contacted her did it lift back up again. Ignazia saw that the other hand was busy tapping around on the ground in a similar fashion. Whatever were they searching for? One hand brushed against the blood-soaked fur of the fallen dog and a short breath escaped from under the mask, betraying the creature's pleasure. Gracefully, he hoisted the animal up onto his back, turned and began to stride off.

Ignazia was enraptured by what had just transpired. _I... have been touched... by an _angel! Suddenly the pain of her scrapes and bruises didn't seem so bad. Her lungs didn't feel quite so heavy. The forest did not seem quite so scary... Ignazia blinked. No, that was a lie. The forest was every bit as forbidding as before. And as her euphoria faded, returning her brain functions to normal, she realized her only hope of guidance was leaving—and quickly! Ignazia scrambled to her feet and immediately took off after the strange man. "Excuse me! Sir?"

As suddenly and elegantly as a flash of lightning, the lanky man swung a still-bloody blade out towards her, stopping millimeters away from her eyes. Ignazia choked and stumbled backwards. The man's voice seemed nothing more than a throaty hiss as he whispered something in a strange dialect.

"P-please, kind sir! I mean thee no harm!"

The man stood there, threateningly poised to take her out. Then, with another whispered garbled word, he pressed onward again. Ignazia sighed in exasperation. Try as she might, she could not place the accent, and her savior was quickly moving away in huge strides. She jogged after him, deciding it was time to change tactics. Dashing in front of him, she threw herself at his feet in a humble bow.

"Begging thy pardon, kind sir! Thousands of humblest and most gracious thanks to thee for thy courageous actions on my behalf. I am but a poor foreigner, alone in this land, and I—."

After a momentary pause, the man continued forward, stepping on one of Ignazia's outstretched hands. "Ouch!" she cried, nearly losing her composure.

"I said, move! You're in my way," came the gruff breathiness of the man's voice, now in a language that was somewhat comprehensible.

Ignazia's temper flared at the incredible rudeness of this stranger. "Thy accent was so thick, I could not understand a word thou hadst said," she snapped, rubbing her bruised hand.

"Your words are so flowery, I guessed you had _nothing_ to say," he snuffed back, voice hushed.

Ignazia could not contain herself. "You pretentious bastard!"

The man's mask still wore an expression of stone, but the tone of his voice betrayed his amusement. "That's more like it," the man chuckled. Then the cheer vanished from his voice. "Now move!"

He shoved her out of his way and trudged off into the scenery. Exasperated, Ignazia rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose up towards Heaven. _Some "angel"! _she mouthed, then flitted off to catch him.

"Uh, hello?" she called to him in sing-song, not wanting to waste any more dignified speech on such riff-raff. "I'm sorry for that little outburst. Truth is, I'm in quite a predicament. You see, my ship was destroyed and now I am lost in this—place. I thought you might be able to help me. I mean, it appears you certainly know where you are going. But I can offer something in exchange for your help. Perhaps you need assistance carrying your load?" She reached for the man's pack.

In a move so quick it was nearly invisible, the man dropped his belongings and twisted round, leg extended. Before she registered what had happened, Ignazia was flat on her back and the man was pressing down on her, cold blade tickling her neck. "You're beginning to piss me off!" he growled aggressively, sharp teeth visible through the mouth hole in his mask. The feeling was mutual. Feeling intense fear paralyzing her, Ignazia fought it with ferocity, the only way she knew how.

"You wouldn't!" she spat, glaring up into the strange stoic face. The man exhaled, retracting the weapon as if out of confused hesitation.

"Heh, see!" Ignazia laughed nervously. "Why would you save me, only to take my life here?"

"_Save_ you?" hissed the man.

"From those dogs, back in the forest."

He cocked his head to one side for a little bit, then let out a raspy cackle, smashing her chest to the ground with a massive hand. "Believe me, Lady, I'm no hero!" He shook his head in bemusement and muttered something in his own dialect. "I was hunting, not saving," he said matter-of-factly. "However, if I had known those dogs were going to eat you, I would have waited 'til they were fat 'n finished. More for me."

Ignazia glared at the man, not knowing what to make of him. "Come to think of it," he continued, ducking in closer to her, "those dogs are just scrawny bags of bones compared to you, miss supple!" He gave her chest a quick squeeze, jiggling her breasts. In a fit of embarrassed fury, Ignazia kicked him off her with all her might. The man exploded in laughter as she crossed herself and tried to regain composure.

"I am a human being!!" she screamed at him. "Are you mad?!"

After a loaded silence, the man stood quietly. "Hunger knows no atrocity." Ignazia could see those sharp teeth flash through the mask. "If you value your life, you'll get lost," he muttered.

"But, I already am lost!" Ignazia asserted.

A gleam of light whizzed passed her throat. It took her several moments to recognize the stream of blood that oozed from the wound inflicted by the dagger that drove itself into the ground beside her. _That monster cut my throat! I'm doomed! He really is going to eat me! _She erupted in coughing, clutching the nick on her throat as if her head was going to fall off her shoulders.

"BEAT IT!!" the man boomed.

Ignazia couldn't help herself. Still coughing, she frantically clambered to her feet and took off sprinting for the forest.

Voldo listened after her for a few seconds, then slowly began to feel for his things.


	3. The White Haired Eavesdropper

A pair of striking blue eyes peered out from the lush Mediterranean undergrowth. A rough, yet feminine hand hastily brushed back flyaway locks of white hair. Isabella Valentine ignored the persistent itch of the scent-removing powder she had applied to her skin and allowed herself only strictly regimented and very silent breaths. She appreciated the irony of going to such great lengths to avoid being discovered... by a _blind _man! At least she could breathe a little easier knowing that arrangements had been made for the village up ahead.

Rumors about the "scissor-handed, demon-infested mad man" were spreading nicely. Already several villages shook in their collective boots, scrambling to find "heroes" to protect them against the ominous creature headed their way. Isabella had recruited the perfect such hero for the next village: strong enough to provide a challenge, stupid enough to prevent damage to her own hero. The plot had been set in motion. Now she relished the extra time she had to admire her main character.

She watched him absent-mindedly rub his sore muscles as he sat in front of the fire. The orange glow of the evening's vivid sunset trickled through the trees, lending Voldo's appearance an uncharacteristically warm quality. He reclined back against a tree trunk and tilted his face towards the heavens, basking in their serenity. The mask covered his features, but his entire countenance gave testament to the joy born of new hope, a renewed sense of purpose. Finally, he had a reason to live again. Isabella smiled and sighed in spite of herself. Ah, what a story this was to be!

"Usually threatening one's life and inflicting bodily harm are enough to get your point across." Isabella's stomach clinched at the sound of Voldo's voice. How could he know she was here?! He continued, "What part of _leave me alone_ do you not understand?"

Isabella's mind raced. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, intensifying the itch from the powder. She tried to put herself in character, struggling to think of a convincing reason for her presence. She could not think of what to say! Just as she was about to clear her throat, there was a rustle from another part of the forest. Isabella's jaw dropped when she recognized the dirty face of the girl who emerged from the brush.

* * *

Ignazia's patience was completely spent. Most of the day she had flounced through the forest searching for her shadowy savior, and when she finally found him she practically had to sprint for hours to keep up with him. She was exhausted and she ached all over. No way in hell would he frighten her away this time! Her brow furrowed and she set her jaw. "I have no intention of dying alone in the wilderness," she snapped.

Voldo continued to bask in the warmth of the fire, not even turning to look at her. "So, you'd rather die _at my hand_ in the wilderness."

Ignazia stepped forward, challengingly. "Don't be a fool. I want your protection until I can get back to civilization."

"I already told you, I don't want you along!"

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," Ignazia spat, her temper getting the best of her. She struggled to contain it once again. More calmly, she added, "Look, all I ask is that you drop me off at the nearest village."

"What's in it for me?"

That caught her off guard. "Uh... um..." she stuttered, not knowing what to say. Voldo interrupted yet again.

"What's your name?"

Ignazia hesitated. She certainly did not want to give him her actual name. A ruffian like him would probably take her prisoner in hopes of a ransom if he knew who she was.

"Zita," she yipped.

"Well then, Zita. Your first duty as my _slave_ will be--."

Ignazia couldn't believe her ears. "SLAVE?! How _dare_ you?! I'll have you know, I am a member of the Spanish aristo--!" She choked on the word, then quickly corrected herself. "Artists." She added, "I'm a flautist. For the royal family. I work for no one but them!"

It certainly wasn't the most persuasive story. The man didn't seem to be buying it. "Flautist?" he repeated sardonically.

Ignazia inwardly scoffed at the absurdity of her own fabrication. _Flautist?! Ignazia, you moron, you can't even carry a tune!_ But outwardly, she puffed out her chest and nodded confidently. "Yes."

Voldo shook his head. Almost to himself he muttered, "She certainly is full of hot air..." He turned back to Ignazia. "Okay, _Your Royal Flautist_," he said sarcastically, dramatically bowing in mock-reverence, "your first duty as my slave will be to cook my food." He motioned towards a low branch behind him.

Ignazia nearly gagged at the sight. A bloody mess that she was pretty sure used to be a dog was now draped limply over the branch. "But, I don't know how!" she whined, trying to divert her vision from the animal.

"Of course you know how. You're a woman," Voldo replied. "Look, I even skinned it for you."

As if in response, blood dripped audibly off the dog carcass into the puddle beneath it. Ignazia squeezed her eyes shut and shouted, "No, you wretched monster! Cook your bloody meat your own damn self!"

Voldo exhaled sharply, hissing through his mask. "If you won't be my slave, I have no use for you. And you don't want me to start inventing uses."

Ignazia fumed, "Your words don't scare me!" But Voldo's ensuing silence did.

Slowly, he stood to his full height. "Wh-what are you doing?" Ignazia's voice quivered.

Voldo took several deliberate menacing steps toward her. She backed away, eyes widening. "Stay away from me!"

Suddenly, his long arm shot out, covering the distance between them. He grasped her wrist tightly and yanked her in close to him. She yelped in fear and pain as she writhed against his grip. He wrapped his other hand around her face and brought it to his own.

"I told you, hunger knows no atrocity," he breathed hotly into her ear. "Living in solitude for countless years will make a man _real_ hungry... in more ways than one." Ignazia felt the cold metal nose of the mask trace down her throat and shoulder. Voldo snickered. "Shame that body of yours is so tiny and weak… I'd hate to think what would happen if some _wretched monster_ should come upon you while you sleep." He play-bit at her neck and she jolted, tears of fright now freely flowing from her eyes. He chuckled evilly as he caressed her face. "Good thing I'm here… to 'protect' you."

Ignazia's breath came in audible gasps. She shivered uncontrollably.

"So, slave, what do you say?"

Reaching for the meat, Ignazia stuttered, "B-bon appetit!"

The man relaxed his grip. "How... disappointing," he hissed. Ignazia shuddered, trying to shake off the thought of whatever lecherously intentions he might have had in mind.

Voldo began to make his way back to his seat. A noise from the forest commanded his attention. "What's that?!" he snapped, whipping his face in the direction of the sound. Whatever it was, it didn't stick around. He saw no point in pursuing it. After all, he didn't have to worry about his meal tonight. His stomach growled in anticipation as he plopped down to wait for his food.

* * *

Isabella ran until the forest ended and she found herself in a grassy meadow. She scratched furiously at long-neglected itches and screamed up at the emerging stars. "Curse that bitch! Damn her! A pox on her family!" She stomped forward, now swearing more quietly. "Why doesn't he just _kill _her and be done with it?"

"L-Lady Ivy?"

Isabella spun around to see the source of the voice behind her. She was greeted by a young woman with a boyish face and short hair, like her own. Isabella relaxed. It was one of her scouts. She commanded, "Yes? Tell me your news. Ah, I pray it is good."

The scout's look disheartened her. "There are soldiers approaching the target village, Milady. They look like Cervantes' men." She hesitated a bit, not wanting to make her mistress angry. "And... Charles is with them."

Isabella felt her blood boil. _What's _he _doing here? _she wondered. He was such an irritating man, so emotional and totally without a brain. Old Cervantes had certainly picked a fitting match for his dreadful daughter... _Wait. That'll be why he's here. He's searching for her. _Isabella could not believe her luck! This was the perfect opportunity to get rid of two nuisances at once!

"Excellent!" she replied, much to the rogue's surprise. She began to pace, plotting aloud the mechanics of the new operation. "I'll instruct Voldo that he is to leave the girl in the village." She pointed towards the scout. "You, go. Tell the soldiers of Ignazia's presence in the village ahead. Tell them not to leave without her! Then we can be rid of the brat and continue on as planned!"

"Yes, Milady!" The scout took off sprinting away to carry out her orders. Lady Ivy watched her for a while, then trudged back into the forest. She would have enjoyed a much-needed rest tonight, if not for that spoiled selfish imp's rude intrusion into her meticulously organized plans. She swore once more under her breath. Oh well. She would soon eliminate the unwanted plot twist from her masterpiece.

* * *

The heavenly expanse began its nightly transformation, languorously allowing its colorful twilight apparel to slip away and expose the cloudless darkness underneath. The evening's first stars twinkled shyly out from their nighttime shroud, curiously blinking at the countryside below. They watched as gentle shadows enveloped the rolling hills, tucking the land into slumber and beckoning dreams to come.

One particular group of soldiers, however, stubbornly struggled against sleep's temptation, their tired feet making scuffling sounds along the gravel road they traveled. Their procession awakened a small herd of domestic goats, who, surrounded by the vast open terrain, looked as lonely as the soldiers felt. Cervantes' cargo captain chuckled softly to himself as the animals bleated their sleepy protestations. The captain closed his eyes and breathed deeply in the country breeze. There was a chill in that breeze and a faint hint of Autumn in the aroma that wafted through the captain's nostrils. The peaceful sounds of the night chorus drifted to his ears. The air was alive with the nightingale's shrill nocturne, the harmonious buzz of summer cicadas... and the incessant wails of the bothersome man behind him.

The captain grit his teeth, swallowing back the frustration that Charles' lack of restraint was forming inside him. The inconsolable man had been mourning ever since they started their search, and they hadn't even found a body yet. The captain shuddered to think of what Charles' reaction might be if they were to find the girl in a condition that was... less than favorable. Well, at least there was no chance of that for a while. A thorough search of the coastline had revealed no trace of their quarry, so the weary troupe was making its way towards Naples, the largest city in this region. Already the captain thought he could make out pinpoints of the city's lights in the darkness up ahead.

An unhindered ululation sounded behind him, dissolving his concentration. He spun to face its source, a bit more forcefully than he intended. But, the pitiful and tear-moistened visage that met his glare softened his murderous thoughts a bit.

"Ho there, Sir Charles. Try to contain yourself," the captain whispered in broken English. "You are disturbing the troops," he lied. Appreciative glances from a few of the men behind him let him know that it wasn't exactly a lie.

Charles sniffed wetly and sputtered, "Oh, I'm so sorry. It's just... I can't _bear_ the thought of her... all alone in this treacherous place!"

"Don't you worry, Sir. She's a smart one. I'm sure she can take care of herself for a few days." _More than could be said for you,_ the captain's mind continued as he began to turn back around.

"Begging your pardon, sirs." The quiet voice beside him made him jump. Judging by the clothing, the captain guessed the small form keeping step alongside them was that of a young boy, but a large hood concealed the youth's features. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Sounds like you're missin' someone."

"Uh, yes... yes, my lad," the captain answered, startled as the youngster appeared to have come from nowhere. The captain wondered what the boy was doing out here at this time of night, but thought it best not to ask. It was precisely this adventuresome, rather reckless nature that made young people the best sources of information... The captain hastily began his description. "A girl, not yet 18. Black curly hair, slight build—."

"Fancy dress? Yea, I seen 'er."

Charles squawked, a most unusual sound. He dashed to the youth at once and gripped him by the shoulders.

"You did?!" he demanded frantically. "Where?! Where is she?!"

"Halt!" cried the captain, half to his army and half to Charles, who was obviously frightening the child. The lad wrenched free from the crazed man's clutches and edged away.

"She was headin' for that village, there between those two hills," he responded, pointing behind them, all the while warily eying his assailant. But, Charles had already taken to his heels. Fresh tears, this time motivated by joy, flowed down his face. He screeched as he jogged passed the ranks, "About face! Turn around! Quickly, quickly, we've no time to lose!" The captain shook his head at the Englishman's strange antics, then started after him. Remembering the young helper, he stopped and searched his pocket for some coins to reward the boy. But the youth had vanished just as suddenly as he had appeared.

The captain knew that it was too dark to continue searching for Ignazia anymore tonight; besides, they could all use a good night's sleep. They could begin the search anew in the morning after they were rested. He barked orders to his troops, informing them of the evening's plans. The promise of a warm bed was more than enough to quicken their pace towards the small village ahead.

* * *

Lady Ivy's scout watched the soldiers pass by her hiding place. Gingerly, she rubbed her shoulders, bruised where Charles had gripped them. No wonder Cervantes' daughter had run away! She thought it odd that Ivy hated the girl so much, but felt it best not to meddle in her mistress' business. Ivy was kind to her workers, but there was a fierceness about her eyes that spoke of the grudges she bore in her heart. One could only guess the history behind those eyes. But speculation would have to wait for now. After the soldiers had passed, she took off to inform her mistress of the successful mission. 


	4. Unwilling Companions

_For all you who were keeping up with this story before the format change, make sure you catch the tail-end of chapter 3... there's a bit of new content there._

* * *

Voldo leaned against the tree trunk, feeling the unpleasant heaviness of the blood settling in his feet and rump. The girl was taking her sweet time poking around on that carcass, her hands making slimy sounds against the meat, but he knew she had accomplished nothing. Now her progress was halted as she shook the biological matter off her fingers, vocalizing her disgust in a manner he was sure to hear. His patience was wearing thin.

"Are you going to cook that meat or just give it a comfortable massage?"

She huffed in frustration. "You could at least give me a knife to carve it with!"

Voldo chuckled, "Trust a disgruntled female with a knife? I'm not stupid." In reality, he did not consider her the least bit threatening. If she tried anything, he could have the knife out of her hand—and most likely her hand off her arm—in a heartbeat. It was his own hand he didn't trust. Even now his fingers flexed of their own will, yearning to grip his weapons. His empty stomach growled for food, and his tongue tingled for the particular kind of meat he had cherished for so long in the cave... The foolish girl refused to realize the danger he represented, and still she stood there, dawdling.

She grunted in exasperation and whined, "If you won't give me anything to carve it with how am I supposed to—?"

Voldo shot out his arm, jerking off one of the dog's hind legs. He felt the satisfying crunch of shattering bone and tendon and for a second allowed himself the pleasure of imagining they belonged to another, more infuriating creature. The girl gagged audibly. "Cut the theatrics!" Voldo ordered, shoving the bloody appendage into her unwilling hands. "Get to work!"

Whether Zita was intelligent enough not to argue against a man who had proven himself entirely capable of ripping her limb from limb, or she was just too shocked to resist, Voldo did not care. He heard the sizzling of cooking meat and the ensuing aroma was enough for him. He leaned back, careful to sit atop his twitching bloodthirsty hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused every bit of his concentration onto containing the beast inside him. Simply tolerating the presence of another human being reminded him just how thin the worn thread of his sanity really was. Hunger frayed it to its breaking point.

He hadn't always been this way. He had grown up the most cherished bodyguard to none other than the feared arms dealer, Signori Vercci, the "Merchant of Death". Voldo had found favor with the old man, who considered him more son than slave and gave him a grand education fit for a signori's heir. Together they had transversed the vast Italian peninsula and sailed the endless oceans conducting their business with thousands of people. Back then Voldo had actually enjoyed interacting with his fellow man, never having to worry about how to carry himself or how to respond in conversation. But something about his experience in the cave had twisted him. Those countless years of desolate solitude down in the black left a scar on his heart deeper than any fleshly malformation. Even now, two years after his Angel brought him back to his senses, he could feel his psyche teetering precariously on the sheer brink of insanity. It seemed this whiny brat was hell-bent on shoving him over the edge.

The girl sniffled, the scent of her sorrow rich in the air. Tears spurred by anger, frustration and most of all pure exhaustion trickled down her face, each causing little sizzles as it dripped onto the cooking meat. "Keep 'em coming. I like my meat salty," Voldo heckled her. He felt no sympathy. After all, it was she who had latched on to him like some blood-sucking insect; she alone was to blame for her current predicament. As a fresh wave of tears cascaded from her eyes, the only thing that concerned Voldo was that he no longer heard the sizzling of the meat.

"Pay attention! Keep it in the fire and don't drop it!" he commanded, digging his fingernails into the skin of his legs. As a veteran fighter with an icy cool disposition, Voldo knew better than anyone the importance of choosing one's battles. But this girl sapped his patience, agitated and even _frightened _him. So why had he agreed to let her stay? Why hadn't he just torn her head off when he had the chance? Well, she was stubbornly persistent, he was worn out, a fight wouldn't be worth the effort... his mind could churn out a thousand excuses, but he knew he was only fooling himself. No, the true reason was something quite inexplicable, a mystery that he couldn't solve, so he pushed it to the back of his mind. There was nothing Voldo hated more than the unknown.

But the more he tried to ignore the truth, the more anxious he became. His thoughts grew erratic, then began to lose cohesion as if they were dissipating into a fog, his calculating rational self giving way to something far more primitive. His brow beaded with sweat. Somehow, his senses began to register the imperceptible: the silent rustle of an owl's feathers, the spine-tingling electric fear of the chipmunk in its talons, echoing ethereal laughter, perfumed aromas... He panicked, tossing his head around to address the voices that danced in his mind, phantasms from long-buried memories of a distant past. He knew them, those beloved friends, those despised enemies, but he couldn't remember them. Tormented, he beat his face against the ground. But still they danced, laughing all the louder, encircling a sensation far stronger than any other. _Her._ _Her scent._ Why had he let her live? Because she reminded him of someone. Who? _Can't remember._ The memories whirled dizzyingly, faster and faster. _Stop!_ He clutched at his head, trying to grab hold of a memory long enough to analyze its scent, to compare it to hers. _Her scent!_

Zita, transfixed by the convulsing figure at her feet, neglected to notice the smoke that billowed off the dog leg in her hand. Voldo was not so imperceptive. The pungent smell of carbon jarred his psyche back to consciousness with a growl from his enraged stomach. Nervous energy still coursing through his body, Voldo snatched the scorched food and sent the girl flying several feet backwards. "Damn clumsy bitch! It's burning up!" he yowled, patting out the flames that consumed his meat. Sighing with disappointment, he held up the charred remnants of his meal, which he judged by its weight to have shrunk to half its former size. For a second he contemplated throwing this trash to the useless girl and cooking his own dinner, but a residual wave of anxiety washed away that thought entirely. He knew all too well the insanity that had just come over him and was not about to let his hunger invite it back. Ravenously he shoved the carbonized food under his mask and tore off a crunchy mouthful.

"Tastes like rat shit," he muttered, chewing the tough crispy char.

"I told you I don't know how to cook," came the hesitant reply.

"Well now I believe you," he said. He heard her shuffle to her feet, followed by the loud grumblings of her empty stomach. Great, even her stomach was a complainer. There was only one way to quiet it. Before she could say anything, Voldo tore off another of the dog's hind legs and threw it towards her.

"Here. Cook it and cut the complaining. Though you'd probably be better off eating it raw." _Ahh, raw meat. _His mouth salivated at the thought of the delicacy he hadn't savored for over a year at his Angel's command, of course. She and only She could have influenced him to give up its coppery taste, the silky texture of still-warm lifeblood streaming through his teeth and down his throat—_no_! He shook his head to rid himself of the haze that once again clouded his thoughts. This was not good. He had worked so hard to regain his senses after their decades-long departure, but this was the most severe relapse he had ever experienced. He suspected it had something to do with the girl, with her unnerving aura... He resolved not to think about it anymore, stuffing his mouth full of the burnt offering to placate his angry stomach.

A loud yelp beside him startled him. It was that girl again, probably burnt her clumsy fingers in the fire. Voldo shook his head, suppressing a chuckle. The only thing she was good for was to be used as a sharpener for his weapons. It certainly would be nice to have a bit of practice before the big day tomorrow... but he quickly shook the thought from his mind. His sanity was already spread a bit thin and he could not risk losing any more ground. One thing was for sure: he could not wait to be rid of her.

* * *

Zita lay awake, as she had for several hours now. Her dusty bed of leaves and solid dirt was a far cry from the plush mattress and goose feather pillows she had back home. Now, no matter which way she turned, there was always another sharp organic object beneath her burrowing into her skin. Worse still was the squirmy sensation of the thousand insect legs she was sure were bustling about her body. Real or imagined, it made no difference, the boorish bedfellows were making sleep nothing but a dream. Yawning in frustrated sleepiness, Zita dragged her tired body over to the nearest tree and propped herself against its trunk, seated in such a position as to keep her contact with the vermin-infested ground as limited as possible. Heebie-jeebies finally at bay, Zita immediately began to slip into much-needed slumber. She had been through so many physically and emotionally demanding trials in such a short space of time without the rejuvenating comforts of sleep, and—but, what was that tickle she felt on her shoulder? Hoping beyond hope that her mind was just playing tricks on her, Zita groggily reached a heavy hand up to her shoulder—and brought back the largest, hairiest spider she had ever seen! 

She sprang to her feet with a screech, flailing her limbs and hopping around in circles. The sleeping man nearby stirred a little. Zita quickly pulled herself together, shivering as she remembered his strange behavior at dinner. That man was creepier than a million spiders. Zita frowned. _He_ was responsible for all her present suffering. He hadn't shown her even the slightest signs of chivalry by offering her his blanket, didn't offer her any of the human dignity even the lowliest of slaves deserved. _His slave, indeed! More like his dog!_ When the fire went out before she could finish cooking her food, he wouldn't even start it again, forcing her to eat raw meat instead! Her stomach gurgled at the unpleasant memory. She missed real food even more than she missed sleep; otherwise she would not have swallowed such a disgusting and unsanitary meal. How she wished she was already at the next village, enjoying a full spread and soft bed. The basest of lodgings would suffice; she found in her desperation that she was quite beyond caring about the quality of the establishment. Just as long as it was clean, well-decorated, with a respectable owner, not populated _entirely_ by peasants... and a private suite would be nice.

Suddenly she experienced an epiphany. There really was _nothing_ keeping her from setting off to find the village on her own. Her hideous captor was fast asleep. He had mentioned something about reaching the village tomorrow... Perhaps without resting, Zita could reach it this very night! It wasn't like she was going to get any sleep here, anyway. Without a moment's hesitation, she tiptoed off into the forest, continuing in the general direction the two had headed earlier that day. As the campsite became smaller and smaller in the background, the smile on Zita's face grew larger and larger. Her brisk pace alleviated the stiffness in her legs. Her sleepiness was vanquished by a new sense of adventure and her sour spirits soared with the promise of reunion with civilization. It wouldn't be long now...

She pressed on for a while. Moonlight trickled down through the canopy, providing her with just enough light to navigate through the dense trees. For all their beauty, she couldn't help but wonder why their Creator hadn't been more creative. They all looked the practically identical. As a matter of fact, she could swear she had seen that same rotted stump ages ago. Shaking a gnawing suspicion out of her mind, she continued forward. Several hours later when she shuffled by the same stump, she could ignore it no longer. Utterly defeated and feeling just a tiny bit afraid, Zita sank to the ground and pulled her knees up to her chest to protect herself from the cold breeze. _I'm just tired, _she thought. _A few moments' rest and then I'll get my bearings. _Her pride kept her from admitting that she hadn't the foggiest idea of where one might attain these "bearings".

An eerie howl drifted through the night. At once, Zita abandoned her rest and stood alert, heart racing in her chest. A whoosh of wind sounded above her, and she screeched, ducking out of the way of a fleeing owl. It knew that sound as well as she did. _Those beasts! They've caught my scent! _Instinctively, she moved to cover the drops of dog blood that had spattered across her dress during their previous encounter. _They'll—they'll want revenge for sure! _She began to hear ominous noises all around her: footfalls, panting, scurrying... growling...

Before she knew what she was doing, she shot out like an arrow. She didn't know where she was going, she just ran. The noises around her seemed to resonate throughout the forest. No matter where she fled, she just couldn't outrun them! Visions of her earlier flight flashed through her mind, panicking her. Stumbling and flailing, beyond all semblance of reasonable behavior, she wailed as she fled, desperate to escape her shadowy pursuers. She couldn't see them in the dark, but she knew they were close. So close, she could even hear their heavy breathing!

**Whump!** She slammed into a rather fleshy tree and collapsed backward. It took her panic-stricken mind a few seconds to register that it was no tree in front of her. Nor was it a hungry dog. Far, far worse. Zita's brow furrowed as she caught her breath, silently regarding the man, her "savior". He stood there with his masked head cocked to one side, as if he was amused by her plight and awaited her next entertaining act. She stood to face him, adopting as prim a posture as possible.

"I... went looking for a way out of the forest," she lied, trying to shake away the remnants of fear that coursed through her blood. She could no longer hear the beastly noises. Perhaps they were nothing but products of an overactive imagination in the first place.

"Worthless," the man snorted. "I already know the way out." He turned to lead the way, his belongings already neatly wrapped away into the pack on his back. Zita begrudgingly began to follow him, finding it odd that he elected to move out in the dead of night. Then, suddenly, it hit her. The light that now illuminated her path was no moon beam. The sun was coming up! She had spent the entire night wandering around in circles in the woods!

"We've a hard journey today, and we need to move quickly. Good thing you had a full night's rest," the man said, his head slightly to gage her reaction. Zita couldn't help but whimper. She heard her captor chuckle in response, a barely audible rasp merging from under his mask. He was laughing at her! Somehow he _knew_ she hadn't slept last night, and now he would force her onwards just to torture her! She struggled to contain her fury.

"I trust _you_ slept soundly," she spat spitefully.

"Best sleep I ever had," the man replied. Of course it wasn't true. Voldo hadn't slept well since he embarked on this journey. How could he? Out in this terrifying openness, exposed to all manner of strange sounds and scents and sensations that vied and volleyed for his attention, he felt so utterly conspicuous that sleep only happened when his body simply couldn't push anymore.

At least last night had borne another message from his Angel. She warned of soldiers, instructed him not to meddle in their affairs and to keep his distance from them so as not to break his concentration for the task at hand. More importantly, he was to leave the girl with the soldiers, who would be looking for her... the best news Voldo had heard in a long while! But he had to move quickly. The men would not stay in the same place for long.

He sped forward, following the aromatic trail his Angel faithfully laid out for him. It wasn't long before Her scent mingled with that of poppies and pastures. "Hurry up!" he excitedly chided the lagging girl, not surprised when his demands fell upon deaf ears. With a grunt of annoyance, he blindly shot out an arm, searching for any part of her he could wrap his hand around. Feeling his fingers brush against her curly locks, he gripped and strode onwards.

"H-hey!" she exclaimed, stumbling after the man.

"Faster!" he snapped, all but dragging her along behind him. His legs were so long that Zita had to take two steps for each of his, and he was moving so quickly he might as well have been jogging. Zita did her best to pound along behind him. She could see his scarred bony fingers tipped with cracked yellow nails ripping her hair with each violent yank.

"O-ouch! You're h-h-hurting me!" she cried out, but to no avail. She felt like a fish caught in an eagle's deadly talons and saw no escape from this monster. Her side stitched and her shins splinted. "I—can't—breathe—!" she coughed, trying to loosen the tightness in her lungs. But still they rushed forwards. Pain and dizziness swallowed her up, and she knew that in a few more seconds she was either going to vomit or faint, probably both.

Suddenly, they came to a halt!

Finally freed from the demon's clutches, Zita collapsed forward onto the lushest green grass she had ever felt. Heaving for breath, she lifted herself onto her hands and knees and gawked at the beautiful new surroundings. She was perched atop a large hill, forest behind her and flowering meadows as far as she could see ahead of her. Green hills jutted up here and there, some dotted with trees and each capped with its own quaint little village punctuated by the bell towers of local churches. The valleys were lush with vineyards crisscrossed by lonely stretches of fence meant to keep mischievous sheep from munching on the grapes—and doing a poor job of it. Zita's gaze drifted down to the particularly inviting rural community in the valley below her own hill. It seemed to telescope outward as the blood pounded in Zita's forehead. She weakly stood, hunched over with her hands on her knees, savoring this moment of rest. Her captor was already beginning his descent down the rocky side of the hill.

"Come on!" he gruffly called up to her.

"C-can't!" she coughed.

He stopped and whirled to face her. "What?!"

"I... can't! I'm too sore!"

The man rolled his head in exasperation and trudged back up the hill towards her. "Deal with it," he commanded, clutching her arm and dragging her forward once more. "The next village could be miles away."

"What?! What are you talking about? It's right there!" Zita huffed.

The man stopped, snapping his head from side to side. "Huh? Where?"

"There!" Zita laughed, pointing at the obvious settlement not a half a mile away from them.

"North? East?"

Zita was beginning to wonder what sort of mean prank he was working up this time. "I don't know. It's right in front of you. Are you blind?"

At that, the man stopped looking about and let loose a low growl. "How very perceptive," he muttered in his quiet throaty fashion and began to progress downwards once again.

Zita snickered half to herself. "It doesn't take a prodigious amount of perception to see a village that's right in front of you."

"Once again your unmatched powers of observation leave me speechless!" he said sarcastically. "I was referring to the latter comment."

Zita thought about this as she cautiously began her descent down the hill. "Latter... comment... _blind?!_ Oh, you have to be joking!"

The man turned and jabbed a finger at the front of his mask. "Yes, a _metal faceplate _would be a slight hindrance if I wasn't!"

Zita was astounded by this revelation. She could not even fathom what it must be like to live in continual darkness, to not be able to experience the beauty that surrounded them at this very moment. Now that she thought about it, his strange manner of moving—as if his feet led the rest of him, his arms in continual sweeping motion—made a modicum of sense. She felt a kind of respectful pity for the man sprouting in her heart. "You... you get along so... so effortlessly!" she remarked, shaking her head in fascination.

"Done it my whole life. Now, would you be so kind as to shut up and guide us to the village?"

Zita could not overcome her amazement. "But... how? You made it through the forest, and those dogs—."

"_I just have!_ Are you going to take us there or shall I break off your arm and whip you along?!"

He towered threateningly over her, breath hissing through his mask. Zita slunk into the lead, silently climbing down the steep rocky slope. After a pensive moment, she asked, "How are you going to reach your destination when I'm gone?"

"I'll manage," he grunted, feet and fingers searching for better grips. "I won't have to drag along so much dead weight," he added with a snarl.

Zita felt her temper flare. "Look you don't have to get huffy! I'm really amazed that you made it this far without your eyes, but—!"

"Not nearly as amazed as I that you have made it this far without your _brain_."

Zita lost her grip and slid a few feet downwards, scraping her knees against the rock. She landed flat on her behind, giving off a little squeak. Voldo erupted in sadistic laughter, making Zita regret the awe she had felt for him earlier. She stood again, trying to make herself as respectable as possible. Anger and embarrassment getting the better of her, she fumed, "What is your problem?! I am trying to be nice to you, and you've done nothing but threaten and demean me since we met! Surely it wouldn't _kill_ you to show some common decency and help your fellow human in need!"

The man deftly made his way down to where she was. "You misjudge me," he quietly asserted. "I have no decency." He continued forward.

Zita rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop with the childish self-deprecation!" she called after him.

"You have no idea how much danger I represent, how many men I've slaughtered. I could kill you in my sleep. Do not think for a second you know me well enough to judge me!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

Zita hissed back, "Nor do I ever wish to."

"Good. Now stop yapping and start walking!"

The rest of their descent was accomplished in tense and hate-filled silence. Zita slid and stumbled most of the way. Before long, they both found themselves on a worn pathway leading straight to the gates of the walled village ahead of them. The promise of communion with normal human beings thrilled Zita to no end—and made her very aware of something she had almost taken for granted: the oddity of the blind man's apparel.

"You aren't... going in there looking like that, are you?" she asked, appalled at what conclusions might be drawn if the townsfolk saw her mingling with the freak.

"Oh, thanks for reminding me," he responded, swinging his pack off his shoulders. Zita breathed a sigh of relief. Surely he would cover his strange and indecent clothing (if it could legitimately be called that) with his blanket. Her relief was premature. With several quick jerks of his nimble fingers, he pulled out and packed away the long folds of fabric that had been woven through his outfit, leaving only the menagerie of leather straps, some skin-tight netting material and more of his ghastly pale flesh than Zita ever wanted to see! "There," he said, stretching cheerily, "much better, wouldn't you say?" He punctuated his words by bending backwards, popping his vertebrae like tiny firecrackers until the top of his head nearly brushed the ground. Zita shuddered and turned away, not sure what was more disgusting: his inhuman flexibility or the prominent vein-laced hipbones and shiny metal codpiece that jutted towards her. "Ahh," the man sighed, returning to a more natural stance. "Let's go!"

He led the way this time, a slight bounce evident in his step. "Oh, incidentally," he said as he turned back towards Zita. "You aren't going in there looking like _that_, are you? You'll embarrass me."

Zita froze, staring down at her disheveled appearance, ripped and dirtied skirts, matted hair and muddied face. Frantically, she stuttered, "I-I-I—!"

The blind man laughed a raspy cackle far ahead of her. "_You!"_ Zita snarled. "You vile serpent! Give me a blanket to cover myself! Or the fabric from your clothing!" She paled thinking about wearing something that had just been in contact with his most likely slimy skin. "Please!" she continued, clambering after him. "Please, you don't understand—!" But, one look at the scene that awaited them inside the gate, and she forgot all about keeping up appearances.

* * *

_Many thanks and cookies to all who have read this far. I realize nothing major has happened or been revealed yet, but I am very interested in what you have to say. I'm especially interested in suggestions for improvement! Thanks to Mark O'Henry... you should go check out his fic next. Please spread the love and leave a review!_

_Next chapter will feature the first fight scene... don't miss it!_


	5. The Monster Goes to Town

Hundreds of people occupied the town square on this particularly bright morning. Children played with their dogs, both species getting underfoot of busy merchants, who stopped to scold them before scuttling off to attend to their business. Farmers brought in livestock of all varieties, some loud and ill-mannered, some resigned to their fate. A certain white-haired woman in peasant's robes impatiently shifted her weight and tried to avoid contact with the odorous character beside her. Lady Ivy detested crowds. Though she was in full disguise, so many people pressing in around her made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Thank goodness most of the more idle townspeople's fascinations were fixed on the flustered foreigner maundering at them from his elevated pedestal in the middle of the square. A few of the listeners mumbled to each other, curious as to what the Englishman was so passionately trying to articulate. Ivy huffed in disdain, mentally correcting Charles' pitifully inaccurate Lingua Cortigiana, ashamed that such an ignoramus sprang from her own motherland.

After a few minutes, she could not take it anymore. Turning to avert her attention from the embarrassing spectacle, she quickly found that she was the object of many a peering eye's desire. A group of unattached young men ogled her from a distance, no doubt daring each other to come up and talk to her. Ivy rolled her eyes. She let her hand brush against the hilt of her concealed sword and wordlessly weighed the pros and cons of castrating each of the arrogant fools right then and there. Luckily for the would-be Casanovas, Ivy reminded herself of the importance of remaining unnoticed and utilized the next opportunity to slip deeper into the throng of people. If there was anything she hated more than crowds, it was men.

"They're here, Signorina," whispered a sultry voice behind her. Ivy glanced back into the heavily made-up visage of one of her harlot scouts. The lady winked towards the town gates before dragging off her catch of the day. Ivy's eyes gleamed as she spied two painfully conspicuous figures approach the village gates. Quickly, she made her way to her position, looking back only to savor with smug satisfaction the horrified expression on Ignazia's face.

* * *

_CHARLES!_

The world came crashing down all around Zita. There he was, the man of her nightmares, begging the ever-increasing throngs to help him locate his lost love, waving a particularly unflattering portrait of Zita around for all to see. She recognized some of her fathers' soldiers combing the crowds, relentlessly hunting for her. She knew there would be no escaping them. But how on _earth_ did they track her down?! She ducked in behind her unconventionally dressed blind guide, preferring association with the freak over reunion with the fruitcake. Never mind that just two minutes ago she would have given her life to be on her way back home. _Oh why does the Universe despise me so? _her heart cried. Squinting, she scrutinized the picture in Charles' hand. _And out of my hundreds of portraits, why did he have to pick _that _one?!_

"Come on!" the blind man called, beckoning Zita to enter the gates, but she didn't even hear him. Panicked and on the verge of running as far away from this village as she could go, she whirled around—right into a group of shepherds and their woolly flock! The shepherds scolded her in some incomprehensible language, but Zita found escape from her perilous position in the middle of the smelly herd quite impossible. The sheep trudged mindlessly on, forcing her closer and closer to the crowd ahead. By the time the herdsman managed to separate her from their flock, she found herself right in the thick of a far more threatening herd... Paralyzed with fear, she ducked her head down between her arms, desperate to conceal her features from the probing eyes around her and especially up ahead.

As Charles continued his impassioned entreaty, babbling something about the virtues of love and a hefty reward, Zita could hear the hushed chuckles of a few peasant women nearby. One servant woman excitedly joined the group, eagerly neglecting her shopping duties for bits of juicy gossip she knew she could get for free.

"Ooo, well now who've we got here?" she asked.

"Says he's some well-to-do from Elizabeth's court, but I never 'eard of him," clucked a particularly plump peasant.

"Aye, 'is love's gone and run off!" came another, more nasally voice. "Tell 'em, the first place to look fer a girl like that is in the bed of yer richest friend! Heh eh eh eh!" Zita fumed at the audacity of the bawdy old biddies. They had no right to insult _her_ integrity when _they_ were the ones mingling at the market when they should be home tending to their husbands and children!

"But aren't those _Spanish_ soldiers with him?" the latecomer pointed out, standing on tiptoe to get a better view.

"Yes," interjected the plump one, "his fiance's the daughter of ol' Cervantes Who's-it... you know, that washed-up Spanish blue-blood."

"Cervantes deLeon? Ah, you don't say!"

"Aye, a regular ol' codger, that one! But I hear 'e was _some_ pirate in his day!"

"Heh eh eh!" the nasally one cackled. "Must've been, by the looks o' that... 'treasure' he's dug up fer his daughter!" All the women snickered in hushed laughter.

Zita's blood boiled at this besmirching of her father's respectability. How _dare_ these plebeians refer to her father in such a manner?! Everyone in Spain knew he had once been the country's most successful privateer, highly honored by the royal family... certainly not some low-life _pirate. _As a child, Zita had spent many a fond moment on her father's knee, begging him to recount the tales of how he had tirelessly protected the honor of his country time after time. Even now she smiled, just thinking about it. His fearless actions earned him his nobility, and now these contemptible old crones dared to attack his virtue?! Were they so jealous that they felt the need to lower him to their level? They would think twice about wagging their wretched tongues if her father were with her right now! Zita clenched her teeth together to keep in the piece of her mind that so desperately wanted to be made known.

* * *

"The scent, my child." The sound of that beloved voice drifted to Voldo's waiting ears. He could not tell from which direction it came, but it didn't matter. He followed its instructions, immediately catching wind of the fragrant aroma, easily discernible from the far less pleasurable human and animal stenches that stagnated in this place. He sniffed his way through the crowd, oblivious of the double-takes and slack-jawed stares his outfit invoked. Would-be comedians whipped up jokes to impress the giggling ladies beside them. Would-be capitalists whipped out notes, wondering if this was a foretaste of the hottest fashion trends trickling down from up north. But Voldo was single-minded in his pursuit. He had waited so long for this moment! His skin prickled in anticipation and his heart quaked inside his chest.

Presently, an unseen arm halted his progress and the voice sounded again. "Behold, your mission!"

* * *

The women continued on like silly brainless barn fowl, the volume of their voices increasing with their excitement, attracting more participants from the crowd. Zita's jaw ached from clenching her teeth so tightly. She didn't know how much more of this she could take but she didn't know how to escape, either.

"So that's the daughter, eh?"

"Aye, and a looker at that!"

"Hmm, must be some truth about the rumors of 'er 'exceptional beauty'!"

"He he he! Though I'd sooner believe rumors of 'er portrait painter's exceptional creativity!"

Once again, their cackling assaulted Zita's ears. Her face was crimson with anger, dangerously close to erupting with the curses that welled up from her heart. _How... DARE they?! _Her mind hurled insults at the soldiers who scowered the crowd. If not for their presence, Zita would simply show herself to these beasts, reveal to them that even in this disheveled state, she was far more beautiful than any of _them_ could hope to be!

One of the women grinned a rotted smile, knowing she had the bit of gossip to shock and amaze the others. "I hear she bears a certain mark, a... curse..." she began, dramatically drawing out the last word so that every eye and ear were focused on her. "I'm told she has no heart!"

Zita's gasp mingled with the murmurs of the other women. Her hand flew to her chest, covering the secret place... how could they have known?! No one knew of that secret, not even Father! For as long as she could remember, she had vehemently refused handmaidens sent to help her bathe or dress and turned down some of the loveliest low-cut fashions. Since childhood she had masqueraded under the guise of independence and modesty to hide the shame of the insecurity she felt for her one and only blemish... her curse. No one knew of it. So, _how did _they_ know?!_ Already feeling naked in the middle of this condemning crowd, now she was violated.

"She's a witch!" came a cry from the masses.

Another voice joined in the assault, "The Devil's got her heart!"

Charles was mortified by what he heard. His waxen face flushed to the color of a beet and the mustache-like thing on his upper lip began to twitch uncontrollably. "Dios mio," mumbled the captain of Cervantes' navy, hastily making to steady Charles, to keep him from spewing the insults he knew were inevitable.

Charles shook him off, stepping into the crowd. "Yooou... **scoundrels**! You dirty worm-mongering sots! How—how could you say that about my fiancé?!"

The plump lady beside Zita added her voice to the attack. "Give 'er up, for your own good! She'll never love you! She's Satan's mistress!"

Similar affirming cries erupted from all across the crowd, each one pummeling Zita like so many fists. She found herself huddled against the ground, gasping for breath and trying to contend with these accusations. Those awful words echoed in her head, beating her stubborn soul into submission. _She'll_... **_never_**... _love_.

* * *

"Arrrgh!" came a steely growl directly in front of and a ways above Voldo's face. Wow, either his opponent was perched on top of something, or he was _really_ big. Voldo gulped, hoping the former.

"Ha ha ha!" boomed the voice, his hot breath speckling Voldo's skin with saliva. "I prepared to meet a demon, worthy of dirtying my mace!" He slammed his heavy, cruelly-spiked weapon down for emphasis, causing the ground around Voldo's feet to shake. Once again, Voldo gulped for air, realizing the size and power required to wield such a weapon in such a way. The giant continued, "But you are a worm, not even worthy of soiling the bottom of my shoe!" He took a step towards Voldo, smashing his humongous foot into the ground. Now thoroughly spooked, Voldo scurried backwards, out of the goliath's path. He, too, had prepared to face his opponent, but _nothing_ could have readied him for this!

"Heh heh, what's the matter, worm? Wish you had stayed in the mud today?!" The giant released a thunderous laugh, sending tremors down Voldo's spine. The blind man's fingers were like ice and his joints were stiff. It had been so long since he had fought any real battle, and now that fact was painfully obvious in his mind!

"Courage, my child. Take comfort, for I am watching you." The sweet voice drifted to his ears, calming his racing heart and lungs. With a deep breath, he let his pack slide off his trembling shoulders and slowly drew his weapons from their resting places. There was memory in these weapons and strength in their blades. Though their countless battles together seemed so distant in Voldo's anxious brain, he took comfort knowing they would remember how to behave. His hands already relaxed as they adopted their familiar positions. Reassured, he readied his arms at his side, exhaling with a loud hiss.

"Oh ho ho, so! The worm has teeth?" The giant seemed pleased at this response. "He he! Well?! What're you waiting for?! Come bite me!"

Ever obedient, Voldo flew at his opponent with surprising speed, judging his distance and direction by scent and sensation. He felt the creature's body heat near his left hand. In a limber graceful movement, he turned on his heel and lashed his entire body in that direction like a whip. His hands flexed, weapons outstretched, blades separating into six razor-sharp knives. They connected—with the mace. Voldo heard and felt the tinny clang of metal against metal mixed with the giant's booming laughter.

But he wasn't about to quit. His flexible form instantly shifted directions, using the inertia of the blow to his full advantage. Springing sideways upon his hands, Voldo cartwheeled his feet up towards the giant's head, felt them once again connect with the mace. But this, he expected. His long legs continued their arch down and around for the true attack. Surely the hulking beast couldn't guard his top front and his bottom back at the same time! Voldo felt his sharp metal heel coverings sink into the flesh of the behemoth's Achilles tendon. The giant didn't so much as flinch.

This, Voldo did not expect. Didn't his opponent feel pain? He had attacked with enough centralized force to fell a tree trunk of that size! The giant peered down at Voldo, sprawled in a particularly awkward and defenseless position. "Now, now. You call that a bite? Heh heh."

Fear coursing through his blood, his racing heart skipping beats, Voldo hoisted himself into a graceful back bend, and sped out of the giant's range.

His opponent chuckled after him, "You move like a bug! Heh heh, I am pleased. Bugs crunch better than worms!" The sound of his voice provided Voldo with enough sensory information to judge that he had achieved adequate distance for his next attempt. Flipping his ankles upwards over his head, he ended up in a crouch. Ducking low to the ground, gathering tension and speed, Voldo dashed towards the giant. Out came his arms, each weapon jabbing from a different side, then arcing around again after every attack met with steel. _Keep this up and your blades will break!_ Voldo's mind warned him. _I have to figure out a way around that mace!_

But that task proved impossible. The giant blocked all his furious high and low stabs and swipes with ease. Either that mace was as big as Voldo's whole body, or the goliath was moving far faster than Voldo thought he should be able to. Time for plan B.

The mace shot downwards to defend as Voldo's katar flew like lightning aimed straight for the creature's big toe—or at least, it seemed to. Voldo wasted no time marveling at the success of his feint, immediately channeling his winded body's energy into his next attack. Just as the behemoth realized his mistake, Voldo jerked forwards, clapping his katars together into a string of forceful pincer attacks—that cut nothing but air! Voldo felt hot breath on the back of his neck as the beast chuckled, "Heh heh heh... My turn!"

* * *

Ivy grimaced as she watched the huge purple-skinned golem grab Voldo's head and swing him like a shotput. Her hero seemed so tiny compared to this colossus. She felt a tiny twinge of guilt, wondering if she had made a mistake... _No Ivy, it's too early to doubt. There's still fight in him._ Still, she couldn't help but feel sympathy pains as her hero's body whirled through the air and smashed into an unfortunate merchant's cart. "He heh heh!" the giant giggled as he plodded towards his downed victim. "Squirm! Ha ha ha! Scream, worm!"

Voldo released a breathy cry of pain, feeling jagged wooden remnants of the cart wedge themselves into the exposed parts of his flesh. The merchant certainly hadn't stuck around to offer him a helping hand. Voldo felt a fog overcome his brain, dulling his senses. _No!_ he protested. _Gotta—stay—in control! _His throat constricted as he felt the shockwaves of the giant's pounding steps coming straight for him... and he was powerless to move out of its way!

The fickle townspeople flooded to watch the new and more interesting spectacle taking place in the corner of the square. Charles was desperate to keep their attention. "No! Come back!" he called out after them. "I'll do anything! A reward—her father will give you half of his estate! Half the land of Cervantes deLeon, himself!"

Instantly, the fog surrounding Voldo's senses dissipated. _That name! Could it be...? _He whispered it aloud to make sure he had heard it correctly. "Cervantes de Leo-- OOF!"

His world spun upside down. This time the ground brought a much earlier halt to his trajectory. SLAM! He tried to absorb the shock with his arms, scrambling to keep a grip on his weapons. Once again things became topsy-turvy. Air stung his bleeding back as he whooshed backwards. WHAM! His arms could not cushion that blow. His lungs deflated, choking away his cries of pain. Stunned, he barely felt the world fly out of control one final time. Finally free from the goliath's grip around his ankle, Voldo collided with the ground and skidded to a rest, some ten feet away from his maniacally cackling foe.

Voldo felt incredible pain sear in from all areas of his body. The fog crept back into his mind, causing his limbs to spasm in twitchy jerks. _Don't—lose control! _his brain demanded, then whimpered, _Wonder how many bones are broken..._ As his mind succumbed to the haze, Voldo found that he could no longer hear the gasps of the crowd, feel the vibrations of that monster's horrific laughter... smell the aroma of his Angel. _No! _He struggled to control his thoughts, the spasms now rendering his body a useless jittery mess. _Don't—lose—consciousness..._ Little did he know, it was not his consciousness that he was losing.


	6. Boon of the Beaten

Ivy looked on with disappointment. That happened too quickly! Had she not prepared him long enough? Had she poured so much time and energy into training him, her main character, only to have him die on the first page?! It was depressing.

Zita, too, looked on at the pitiful mess of a man that had once seemed so threatening. How ironic that he had succumbed so quickly to his own threat. Especially ironic was the fact that she felt something akin to _concern_ for him! He was a skinny disabled man, after all. This hardly seemed a fair fight.

In her retrospection, she forgot one valuable thing... A mother in front of her whirled her little boy away from the violent scene—right into Zita's unprotected face! The boy blinked. Then, with a big smile, he proclaimed, "Hey! I found her!"

Zita's eyes widened in terror, as she realized what had just happened. "Shh! Shhh!" she hissed, but the boy was already tugging on his mother's sleeve, jumping up and down and chanting, "I found her! I found her!"

"My God!" breathed the woman when she, too, recognized Zita's face. "You—you are that girl in the picture!"

"No, no! You don't understand!" Zita stuttered, but already more people were turning to inspect her.

"Is that the one they're looking for?"

"Yes, I believe it _is_ her under all that dirt!"

"How much was that reward, again?"

The young boy began to scream, "Nu-uh! I found her first! My reward!" Despite his mother's struggles to contain him, he turned to Charles and hollered with all his might, "Hey mister! I FOUND HER!"

The viscount and his soldiers, once transfixed by the strange and sonorous battle that had just taken place in front of them, now turned their full attention to the shouting child. "What is it, my lad?" called the captain.

Zita's eyes darted up, directly into Charles' own pair. Lurching forward in surprise, he tripped over his own feet and collapsed, pointing a stubby finger in her direction. "THERE SHE IS!" he bellowed.

* * *

Still chuckling to himself, the hulk skipped over to where Ivy stood. "You can't hide from me, lady. One dead demon, just what the doctor ordered. Heh heh. Now, you said something about a prize..." 

"So I did," Ivy sighed, hand moving inside her cloak to grip the hilt of her own sword. Some prize _this_ was to be!

"Wait!" thundered the giant, a sadistic grin coming over his knobby face. "I forgot to squish the bug! Heh heh! CRUNCH!" Ivy rolled her eyes as he plodded back over to where a now completely still Voldo lay face-down in the dust. The giant kicked the body over to face him. He liked seeing the blood gush out of his victims' mouths when he stomped them. Giggling in anticipation, he lifted his foot high above the carcass. "Hehehehe! _Smash, squish, **crunch!**_" His foot plummeted down.

Ivy had begun to walk off, not really wishing to see her hand-picked hero be reduced to a squirting red fountain. But, now she whirled back around at the sound of the giant's excruciation. _It can't be!_ A katar blade protruded through the top of his huge hovering foot! Ivy sprinted back, jostling the crowd to get the best view.

With a gargled hiss, Voldo coughed up at the beast, a spray of blood erupting from the mouth hole of his mask. Suddenly, his fingers clenched, spreading the scissor blade and separating half of the giant's foot from his leg.

"ARRRGH!" the hulk wailed and hopped backwards, blood gushing from the stump. His eyes trembled in terror as he beheld the eerie visage of the strapped man, slowly rising from the ground like a corpse emerging from the grave. The hulk clambered to maintain his balance, raising his mace in defense. But before he could draw another breath, the living corpse was immediately in front of him, those terrible claws dripping with his blood. Frantic, the giant swung his own weapon, his now awkward body careening in each direction it flew. The bendable blind man easily avoided these clumsy attacks, his mind now operating on pure, lightning-fast reflexes. His body swiveled, a sinewy leg extending, crushing the knee joint of the giant's supporting leg.

The goliath fell to his knees, dropping his mace at his side. "No! P-please... m-mercy!" He desperately held out his hands, pleading with the undead terror that stood over him, weapons poised wickedly over his head. Mercy was not a concept those weapons understood. They fell, blades whistling against the air. Criss-crossing, each cleaved off the hand of one arm then divided sinew from bone of the other. The colossus emitted a piercing scream and fell backwards, the big bicep muscles in each arm rolling up under the flesh without tendons to keep them taught.

Lady Ivy's jaw hung slightly agape at the spectacle she had just seen—well, it was actually too quick to be seen, but she was certainly pleased with the aftermath! So _Ivy, old girl, you picked a winner after all!_ She smiled a delighted smile, wiping off the bit of the creature's blood that had spattered on her face. "Now, kill him, Voldo!" she commanded in a loud voice.

Voldo recognized the voice of his Angel, but his brain could no longer comprehend words. Instead, it could "see" the movement that his katars should travel, could "feel" the slice of flesh and the ensuing spray of blood, could "taste" the hard-earned meal it was sure to enjoy in just a second. Yes, he heard his Angel and would unknowingly carry out her orders.

But another voice cried out louder.

"No no! Let go!!" Zita screamed out, writhing against the crowd that pushed her towards her fiance's outstretched hand.

"Ignazia! It's alright! I'm here, nothing can hurt you now!" Charles cried.

"No! STOP!" Zita kicked furiously, desperately struggling to get away.

Those screams drifted into Voldo's keen ears, penetrated deep into the recesses of his brain where his consciousness tucked itself away to nurse its wounds. _That bothersome girl... what does she want now? _it sighed and reluctantly began to come out of hiding, reclaiming control of Voldo's body.

Ivy could not believe what she was seeing! The man, her perfectly programmed killing machine, was backing down from its duty! He contorted into a backbend, grabbing his ankles and propelling himself through the crowd like a human wagon wheel. People screamed as they dodged the freakish rolling anomaly.

Zita squirmed, feeling the tips of Charles' fingers brush against the dirtied fabric of her clothes. "No! No!" she squealed, jerking her skirts away from him.

Clueless, Charles smiled back at her. "Don't be ashamed of your clothing, Ignazia, my love! You are still my beautiful flower, and I will buy you whatever dress you desire when—!" He trailed off, his outstretched hand drooping as his eyes shifted focus.

"What?" Zita huffed, noticing the change. "OOF!" she coughed as something collided with her and flung her up into the air. Before her mind could register what had just happened, she found herself clinging to the still bloody back of the sprinting blind man!

"Where am I going?!"

Zita heard the voice, but was too shocked to respond. "Wha--?"

"TELL ME WHERE TO GO!"

Zita jolted up to look over her mount's shoulder, her vision shaking terribly from his bouncing steps. People were screaming and jumping out of the way, making it nearly impossible for her to—_there_! "Lef—uh—right!" she screamed, directing him towards the open gates. He zig-zagged, altering his course and scrambling rapidly towards the goal.

Soldiers flung themselves after the fleeing couple. Zita screeched, wrenching herself free of their grip, feeling the rip of fabric separating from her bodice. "PERVERTS!" she screamed after them as Voldo shimmied and dodged. Zita gasped, spying the stream of soldiers that rushed to block their exit.

"Close the gate! Hurry up, close the gate!" the captain shouted at the elderly gatekeeper.

"I'm going as fast as I can," the keeper wheezed, cranking the mechanism, his bones creaking as loudly as the closing gates.

"Turn around!" Zita yelped. Voldo spun on his heel like a ballerina, nearly flinging the girl off his back.

"Gah—choking!" he sputtered as Zita's arms inadvertently tightened around his throat.

"Sorry!" she cried, grabbing his shoulders instead. His airway now cleared, Voldo took off again, fleeing so quickly that his back was nearly parallel to the ground. Zita's eyes darted across the surroundings, frenetically searching for another possible escape route. But all she could see were fleeting shaky images of gawking townspeople—and soldiers flanking them on their right.

"Left!" she screamed, and off they went, narrowly avoiding the soldiers' clutches for now. But they were closing in, unhindered by cumbersome piggyback loads. Voldo's adrenaline was running low. He knew he could not keep up this pace for much longer.

He panted, "Exit! We need an—!"

"Jump!" Zita interrupted.

"How far?"

"Just jump!"

With a mighty heave and a growl of effort, Voldo flew through the air. The flock of sheep that had barred their progress stared up in amazement at the magnificent leap. Voldo landed with a jolt, stumbling forward, but he regained his balance in a second and took off again. Zita peered backwards, just in time to observe the comical sight of the soldiers tumbling into the flock, earning smacks by shepherds' crooks and mutton hooves. Zita erupted in relieved laughter, but as she turned back around, her giggles were cut short.

"Uh, wall!" she squeaked.

"What?! OOF!"

They careened headlong into the big wall that surrounded the city and toppled over into a heap. "Damn woman driver!" Voldo snarled, picking himself up out of the dirt and feeling for the top of the wall.

"Sorry," Zita sheepishly replied, getting up more slowly.

"How high is it?" the man asked.

Zita stammered, unsure of her perception of height. "It's uh... um, it's..."

Not allowing another word, the man snatched her off the ground and hurled her into the sky. "AIIEEE!" she screamed, barely managing to grip the vines that lined the top of the wall.

"Did you make it?" came the call from below.

Pulling herself up to her new vantage point, Zita could see the soldiers surging forward once again. "Yes, I'm at the top!" she called back down, realizing she didn't have time to be angry about being used as a javelin.

Using the sound of her voice, Voldo rapidly calculated the height of the wall. Plunging one katar after another into the crumbly rock, he slowly and deliberately began his vertical ascent. His back oozed with blood from the strain of the climb. He could feel the fingertips reaching up after him, gripping at his ankles. But with his last burst of energy, he heaved himself upwards, finally reaching the top, far away from their grasping hands. The soldiers turned and sped towards the gates. Their captain swore loudly and screamed, "Open the gates! Hurry up, open the gates!"

"Make up your mind!" grumbled the gatekeeper.

Voldo could feel the ivy below his feet, but knew he did not have enough time to climb down safely. So, he drew a deep breath and leapt. He rolled onto his back after thudding to the ground, some 15 feet below. He gasped dizzily, trying to overcome the impact of the landing.

Suddenly, an arm darted out and tugged him back towards the wall! He convulsed to free himself, but another hand planted itself firmly on his shoulder, steadying him. "Shhh!" Zita hissed, guiding him backwards into a small eroded crevice between the ivy and the wall. For now, the makeshift hiding place sufficed. The soldiers streamed out of the gates, screeching to a halt at the crossroads. The captain hastily split his forces into search groups and sent them in different directions, then turned his attentions towards attending to Charles' inconsolable wails.

Their quarry panted for breath from their hideout. Voldo snapped his head towards the girl next to him and whispered accusingly, "Royal flautist, eh?"

* * *

_Hurray for a bit of action, finally! Please let me know what you think!_


	7. Blessed Vision

Voldo cautiously made his way across the open terrain in a direction not yet explored by the scouring soldiers. His beaten body throbbed with pain he could no longer ignore. As best he could, he reached around to investigate his most insistent injuries, gingerly tracing his fingers across the bloody ridges of skin splayed around the splintered wood protruding from his back. Steeling himself, he tore out the slivers one by one, channeling his response to the sting into sharp toothy hisses. Now unfettered blood trickled warmly across his skin, signaling a welcomed wave of endorphins. At least that alleviated one of his woes.

The other lagged behind him, as usual. Voldo still could not believe this turn of events. There she was, the offspring of the very man his passions drove him to locate and kill. Fortune had delivered this daughter of his most despised enemy helpless into his hands—and yet he agonized over what to do about her! His immediate impulse was to slit her throat... and possibly to enjoy some of her feminine assets beforehand. But his instincts had compelled him to deliver her from the greedy horde back in the village. Obviously there had to be some other more prudent use for her that his conscious self couldn't quite fathom. The whole situation irritated him.

Sensing that the feminine bane was no longer following him, Voldo turned back to her. "Hustle those lazy bones up or those soldiers will hustle them off!" he warned quietly, intently scanning the surroundings for any trace of their pursuers. With a heavy plop, the girl collapsed into a heap on the ground. Voldo rolled his eyes and ground his teeth. He _really _didn't have time for this. "Get up!" he hissed more forcefully.

"I-I can't," she wailed through labored breaths.

Swiftly, Voldo trudged back towards her. "GET UP!" he commanded, forgetting about keeping his voice down.

"I _can't..._ my legs, my lungs... I just can't!" she coughed pitifully.

With a growl, Voldo knelt, groping for her arm. Finding it, he jerked her to her feet and dragged her along behind him. "_This _is why I don't want you along! You slow me down!" He could only take a few steps before a stabbing pain in his side sapped the strength from his arms. Grimacing, he dropped her back down to the ground.

By this time, Zita was sobbing, her own pains and enervation overcoming her ability to cope. Voldo had enough. With a cry of rage, he turned and stomped away, deciding once and for all to leave the girl to her fate.

"Voldo!"

The man stopped. That voice! He hadn't heard it in decades, but he knew instantly whose it was.

"Voldo," it repeated, softer, more sadly.

He spun around to face its source. Suddenly, the darkness parted from in front of his eyes, shocking and delighting him with a most blessed vision, clearer than any he could remember from childhood.

"Alessia?" he whispered in disbelief. Sure enough, the woman who sat huddled and crying before him was none other than his long-lost wife!

"You left me, Voldo," she cried softly, peering up at him with tear-drenched eyes. Voldo's, too, moistened at the visage. The woman continued, "You could not protect me..."

Voldo stumbled forward in shock onto his hands and knees. "A-Alessia, I—!"

"Please... don't leave me again..." Slowly, invitingly she extended her hand to him, smiling peacefully through her tears. Voldo gasped and frantically reached for her. Her death... the pit... this tortured existence... It had all been a dream! This was his happy ending! He would take her and prove that all of the horrors of the past were only figments of his imagination! He strained out his arm, expecting to clutch the soft warmth of her flesh.

"Please..." she whispered again, seeming to drift further and further away from his reach.

"No!" Voldo cried, struggling against the invisible shackles tethering him firmly in place. "NO!" But it was too late. The darkness spilled in again, clouding his vision and rapidly blotting out the image of his only love.

Voldo blinked. Nothing. He was standing once again in front of a sobbing youngster, pain coursing through his fatigued body. He drew a deep breath. His wife was gone... but perhaps she had appeared to him with a purpose. If this weepy teenager truly was the daughter of Cervantes deLeon, then Voldo need only follow her into her father's chambers. He grinned behind his stoic mask. His wife had shown him the way... and Zita was the key to his revenge.

"Alright, tell me what you see." The blind man hunkered down next to Zita, his voice gentle.

She sniffed back tears, a bit uncomfortable with the man's proximity and sudden change of tone. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"Where are we? What's around us?"

Zita straightened and took in their surroundings. "We're in the middle of a huge grassy meadow."

"Is there anything that can offer us protection? Any big rocks, forests, caves, anything?"

"Well... there are some mountains up ahead."

"How far?"

"I guess they're too far to walk to. Are those the Alps?"

Voldo sighed, trying to keep his impatient sarcasm at bay. "No, we're a good month's travel from those yet. Look again."

Zita squinted. "I see a few tall trees and some bushes up ahead. They look pretty close, but I don't know if they're enough to hide us," she said, determined not to fail this task as she had so many before it.

Much to her relief, the man seemed pleased. "They'll do. Lead us there and we will rest for the day."

Zita nodded, taking strength from the promise of rest and peace from her guide's unexpected kindness. They limped towards the trees in silence, moving at a much slower pace than Voldo would have liked, but he felt glad for it. His body ached with each step. He was sure he had broken a rib or two, but his arms and legs, while bruised, were miraculously intact. He wouldn't admit it to the girl, but he needed this rest as badly as she did.

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the makeshift shelter. Zita plopped down, unable to remember a time when she had been more grateful for solid ground beneath her rump. A fierce growl rang out breaking the silence. "Oh!" Zita exclaimed, startled by the complaints of her empty stomach. The man's belly gurgled in response. Reaching for his pack, he—wait... Where _was_ his pack?!

Zita recoiled in disgust as all manner of garbled curses spilled liberally from her companion's lips. Though they were uttered in a language she could not understand, she was sure they were the dirtiest words she had ever heard in her life!

"What is it?" she asked weakly, half afraid those expletives were directed at something she did.

He threw up his hands in anger. "Left my stuff back at the village!" he snarled, pacing stiffly. "Food's there, too!" He knew there was no returning from whence they came, but that left him with only one option. With a giant sigh, he picked up his weapons once more and started off to hunt for game. No rest for the weary.

"Hey!" Zita called after him.

Before she could continue, he shouted back, "Think you could stop being worthless and make us a fire?"

Zita was dazed at the request. _Fire?_ That was servants' work! She had never made a fire before. She could barely even light a candle! "But, I don't know how!" she exclaimed.

The blind man felt his way out of the bushes, but looked back to shake his head at her. "Get two sticks. Rub them together. Try not to kill yourself. It's not that hard!" He shoved through the undergrowth, only to reappear a few seconds later. "Though if you do happen to kill yourself," he added, "it'll be more food for me, so by all means..." He shrugged before disappearing once again.

Zita scowled, disheartened at the reemergence of his petulant bossiness, yet not liking the prospect of being left alone yet again. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"None of your business!" His breathy voice was already a ways away.

Zita pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. Once again she was stuck playing the part of the slave. How much longer would she have to endure such base treatment? _Curse that infernal man! Curse my infernal luck! _She sulked for a good while, calling down eternal damnation on a myriad of infernal items until she ran out of things to curse. Grumbling to herself, she turned her attention to the task at hand, deciding that avoiding another repugnant meal of raw meat was worth a bit of effort.

So, apparently, all she needed was a couple of sticks. Fortunately, she happened to be sitting under a huge cypress tree with hundreds of branches. _Surely this tree won't mind making a small donation to my cause! _The battle that ensued was brutal, and Zita very nearly lost! Finally she emerged victorious, a couple of very fresh branches in hand. Now for the bit about the rubbing. She methodically scraped the sticks together for a minute or two. Nothing. She tried again, more forcefully this time, sloughing off a bit of bark, exposing the green underneath. Still nothing. Hmmm. One more attempt, only this time she jerked the branches across each other so rapidly that her arm muscles burnt... but the sticks didn't. Zita huffed. _Of course_ that man hadn't told her anything about how to hold the sticks or how fast to rub them or for how long; but _of course_ he would come back and yell at her for not getting it just right! For all his unreasonable demands and mood swings, he might as well have been her parent!

Her heart drooped as she thought about her father. More than anything she wanted to be back in his home, at his hearth, telling him all about the horrors of Italy. _Then I'll have Papa make that blind fool into a slave so I can boss _him _around all the time! _She crossed her arms at her chest. She could have been on her way home this very minute if he hadn't gone and intervened! She scowled, wondering why on earth her creepy captor had even delivered her from Charles' clutches in the first place. Surely he didn't want her along any more than she wanted to be here... did he? Zita shuddered, remembering his frightful fight with that misshapen giant, all those sickening sounds, the jeer of the crowd, the splattered blood. The blind man had risen from defeat to domination—only to forfeit his victory in order to save _her_. What if all his threats and insults had been mere cover-ups for a different kind of emotion? What if fear of that giant hadn't been the only stirrings in his heart? What if something else had compelled him to rescue her, something more instinctual, something like—!

She shook her head violently, scattering her thoughts. _Screw that silly head of yours back on your shoulders, Ignazia deLeon!_ she commanded herself, rolling her eyes at the odd things that had crept into her mind. She sought distraction by once again busying herself with the sticks, her efforts furious, yet fruitless; she succeeded only in whittling the bark down even more. Her temper followed suit.

"WHY WON'T IT WORK?!" she yowled, beating the branches against the ground. "AAARRG!" As she whirled to launch the offending sticks into the air, her nose brushed against something furry. She could just make out a bright red, drippy, veiny surface before tumbling backwards, screaming.

Voldo dropped his bloody catch to the ground and shook his head. "I'm surprised all your yammering hasn't attracted the entire Spanish Armada by now!" he hissed.

"I'm frustrated! I couldn't help it!" she snapped back.

"Couldn't do it, huh?" He clicked his tongue, nodding his head towards where the fire should have been. "Worthless, as I suspected. Give me the sticks."

Zita bobbled her head and stuck out her tongue, mocking him as she slapped the branches into his hand.

"Ha!" he snickered. "Is this what you were using? These might as well be dripping water!"

Zita watched as his spidery fingers flicked deftly over the ground, scraping together a heap of fallen cypress needles and some thick dead branches. "Alright, listen up. _This_ is how you make a fire." Zita crossed her arms and intentionally let her mind wander as he went on to explain the proper technique. _Idiot. Who does he think he is, talking down to me like that? Worthless, huh? I wonder how worthless he would be if I were to run off with those cruel claws of his in the night! Then we'd see who could bully who!_

"Got it?"

She jerked back to attention, nodding profusely.

"I said, do you understand?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes!" she squawked, remembering that he couldn't see her previous gesture.

"Good." He handed her the dead rabbits and barked, "Cook these."

She was a bit amazed at the order. "B-b-but—!" she started.

"Yeah, I know it'll taste like shit. But you're never gonna learn if you don't keep trying." At that, he sat himself down at the base of the cypress tree and showed no intention of getting back up again. Zita seethed at his impertinence, begrudgingly whisking the bunnies over the crackling flames. As their flesh sizzled and began to lose its color, she took sadistic pleasure in imagining each one was clothed in leather straps with stupid little masks...

"Alright, Miss Pied Piper. I think it's time you came clean."

Zita snapped her head up. "Wh-why, whatever do you mean?" she stuttered in mock innocence.

"I mean, if I gave you a flute and told you to play it, you'd probably stick it in your nose."

Zita's mind raced. He was on to her! Had he caught on to the chatter of the townspeople? Had he heard her secrets? But he was far away in another corner of the square! He couldn't have heard... could he? Thinking quickly, she released the rabbits from her grasp. "Oh dear, there they go, into the fire!" she exclaimed, hoping beyond hope that he would berate her and drop the current subject. Voldo snuffed, betraying his indignation, but refused to be distracted. Zita shot her hand into the fire to pluck out the now smoldering animals. "Yooow!" she howled, only half for attention's sake. "Hee hee! How clumsy of me! Right?" she giggled nervously, sucking on her painful fingers and trying to judge his response.

"Stop playing the fool, no matter how qualified you may be!" he growled, quickly tiring of her antics.

Zita frowned at him as she fanned away the black smoke billowing from the bunnies' burning fur. "Look, I don't know what on earth you're getting at—."

"How is your _father_?" Voldo interjected, stressing the last word.

She glared at him, suspiciously. "He's fine. Why do you ask?" she responded curtly, sweetness sapped from her voice.

The man stretched a bit and leaned back. "No reason. Just feared for his safety, him being such a vulgar **pirate** and all."

Zita's blood pressure skyrocketed. He had caught her. There was no denying it any more. She could no longer stand around and hear her father's name disrespected in such a manner! "He was a **_privateer_**, for Christ's sake, a highly decorated soldier in the royal army!! Not some God-forsaken pirate!!"

"Heh, is _that_ what he tells people nowadays?"

"Common filth like yourself just can't accept that there are truly noble people in the world," she scoffed. "Don't you dare dishonor him further by pretending to know something about him, when you quite clearly do not!"

"On the contrary, we go way back, your father and I. We sailed together for twenty years."

"Nonsense! He would have told me!"

Voldo stiffened and leaned in towards her. "Has he told you any stories from his sailing days?"

Zita nodded defiantly. "Yes, as a matter of—."

"I'm not talking about vague allusions to grand adventures where he always returns a hero. Surely you are not so foolish as to believe he has done no wrong!"

Zita grit her teeth, feeling the foundations of her world give just a little. What if there was some truth to this blind man's assertions? "You—you're just jealous of his reputation!" she stammered.

The man continued, unscathed and unshakable. "Have you never questioned his nebulous claims? Have you never even asked him for any details? 'Daddy, what were the names of the battles you fought in?' No answer? 'Papa, who were your soldiers? Who were your friends?' Tell me, have you ever _seen_ any of his awards?"

Zita's chest heaved and her mouth opened to give a response... but none came. She had nothing to say. Voldo edged his way closer to her. "Has he ever mentioned old man Vercci? How about his secret treasure, huh? Has he ever told you about that? Did you ever meet your mother? Or, did he leave her in her brothel to rot?!"

"Stop it!" Zita cried, clutching her head. "Just stop!"

Voldo backed down. "Trust me," he muttered, "Your father and I know each other very well." He paused momentarily, allowing Zita time to calm her rapid breaths. Then, he added, "That is why I must take you back to him."

Zita looked up weakly, wishing she could object, knowing she could not. Why had Father not spoken of this man before? Why had he not just told her the truth? Why couldn't he have done something, anything, to prove he was who she believed him to be? Zita was crushed. "Father," she whispered. "He is my fearless Papi... and I'm his little Zita." She smiled to herself, warmly remembering their pet names for each other. Turning her eyes towards her captor, she said softly, "I love him, you know. He means so much to me. He has always protected and provided for me. He's my only family and... my only friend."

"So you ran away to _prove_ that love?" Voldo gibed.

Zita's brow furrowed. "No, no, I'm not running from him. It's that contemptible man, Charles!"

"Ah, the man in the village..."

Zita bared her teeth and raged away to no one in particular. "Father knew I didn't want him! Charles is a pitiful excuse for a aristocrat, unable to manage his own emotions and wholly unable to manage a household! Father knew that! So, why... why did he...?" Overcome with the pain of that reopened wound, she was unable to go on. They sat in heavy silence for a while. Finally, she sighed spitefully. "Oh well. I wouldn't expect the likes of _you_ to know anything about love."

The man seemed to stare off into the distance. "I had a wife once," he said after a pause. "Most beautiful woman in the world." He lowered his head. "She was taken from me on our wedding day."

Zita looked on in disbelief. A wife?! Preposterous!

He continued, sadness weighing heavily on his posture. "For years I thought she was dead. But now—." His shoulders squared and his voice grew stronger. "Now I know she is alive! It is that simple truth that wakes me up in the morning. That is what I am out here searching for."

Zita felt shame wash over her. Were his motives truly that noble? If so, she had horribly misjudged him. "I—I am so sorry!" she sputtered.

Voldo shrugged and straightened, pushing his past back into its place for now. "Soon I will have my wife and my revenge on the monster who separated us." More jovially he directed his attention to Zita. "Now then, I must inform you that you are no longer my slave. You are now my prisoner."

Zita started in shock. Before she could protest, he continued. "But as your warden I am obligated to take care of you." His voice betrayed his smile. "Now that we understand each other a little better, that shouldn't be quite so difficult." Zita returned his smile and, for the first time since she had embarked on this ill-fated journey, relaxed.

"Now, less bleating, more eating!" Voldo scooped up one of the rabbits and bit into it greedily. "Well, I'll be!" he said, delightedly. Zita's eyes glimmered, wondering if she had finally managed to cook something to please his picky palate. "It tastes like shit!" Voldo continued gruffly. But this time there was cheer in his gruffness.

"Oh, you keep saying that," Zita laughed. "How do you know what sh—ahem, _refuse_, tastes like?"

"Believe me, I've eaten my fair share!" Voldo stated, matter-of-factly, chuckling as Zita groaned in disgust. She was too embarrassed to voice her thanks to him for saving her from Charles, and certainly too self-conscious to ask him all the questions that were floating in her mind. Suddenly another thought came to her, and this time she did not hesitate to inquire. "You know, I don't think I know your name."

The man cocked his head and swallowed his food. "I am Voldo," he said. "Voldo Vercci."


	8. Ivy: A Prologue

_Sheesh, that was a long wait. Sorry about that. Hopefully this is worth it. Muchos thankos to all who reviewed!! Ivy may seem like quite the Evil right now, but I really have nothing against her--and to prove it, an entire subplot dedicated to her!! Huzzah!_

_Please keep reviewing. This is ridiculously hard to write, and I'm a praiseiverous creature. I thrive on your adoration. Without it I may go extinct!_

_Before I shut up, make sure to take a gander at Alastor90's excellent Siegfried fic "Father's Intervention" tucked away in the M-rated stuff. Most most interesting. Mmyess... Ta!_

* * *

Count Valentine hunched over his writing table, tired fingers trembling as they held the quill. He scribbled away furiously, excitement reducing his usually precise penmanship to erratic scrawls on the page. He squinted in the dim candlelight, doing his best to ignore his throbbing temple as he scrutinized the archaic document from which he was translating. Valentine was slowly yet surely coercing it to give up its tightly held secrets. This scroll was the most recently acquired addition to his vast library of arcane texts and was quickly proving to be the most fascinating. Its inks were faded to the point of near illegibility and much of the parchment had rotted away to dust. But one particular section remained perfectly intact as if it were an omen from some divine overseer. The count paused and rubbed his cramped hands as his eyes swept across the page. 

_From Adam's pride and Hades' burning_

_Arose the blade of Cain_

_That sinful Sword, man's strongest yearning,_

_Remains his greatest bane_

_o_

_Its substance wrought of fear and rue_

_Its edges demon-breathed,_

_When drawn it cleaves thy soul in two_

_Yet wounds thee worse while sheathed_

_o_

_Happily it feeds thy lusts_

_Indulging greed and vice_

_It gorges thee with power thus,_

_Thy sanity its price_

_o_

_Thy soul corrupt and violated_

_It leaves thee to thy need,_

_Thine innocence lies desecrated,_

_Thy progeny its seed_

Valentine leaned back and closed his eyes, swirling the words around in his mind. He had dedicated his entire life to finding and destroying the demonic blade referenced in these texts, yet the Soul Edge proved to be a cunning quarry. Years of research had provided clues as to how the sword seduced its hosts and twisted them with supernatural power, but this information was useless to describe the sword's weaknesses or even its motives. This text seemed to simply repeat information he already knew, but the count felt there was something about the poem that he was overlooking...

Valentine scanned through the passage once again, more thoroughly. But for all his analysis, he just couldn't force the pieces of the puzzle to come together. Could it be he was not mentally strong enough to solve the riddle? Perhaps this document was not as important as he originally suspected? His business and household were already suffering from his negligence. How much longer would it take him to arrive at the answers he sought? And if he was able to track down the Edge, would he be strong enough to destroy it forever, or would he, too, succumb to its temptations of power and grandeur? He shook his head at the irony; here he was, slaving tirelessly to rid the world of the sword's wicked influence, yet it was even now consuming his thoughts and his sanity. And why wouldn't his head stop pounding?!

The door to his study flew open and a strange woman rushed in. "No! You mustn't disturb the master! Come back!" hollered a procession of frantic servants dashing in after her. But the woman evaded them and collapsed at the startled count's feet, slathering them with kisses and drenching them with tears.

"Have mercy on me, my lord! I beseech your aid!" she sobbed over and over again. The count took a hesitant step backwards and studied the woman's face. He had never seen her before, but she looked to be young, barely fifteen, and obviously pregnant. Her features were delicate, but terribly pale and haggard, as was her lifeless hair. Judging by her attire, she was a prostitute; one of her breasts flopped out of her extremely low-cut dress. But before the count could say a word, his wife lunged for the girl, dragging her away from her husband.

"Get away from him, you filthy whore! How dare you attempt to besmirch the good name of this family?" she screeched.

"Let her be!" the count thundered, silencing everything but the uncontrollable sobs of the young prostitute. The countess shot him a glare that could melt steel, but he quickly dropped his gaze to the frightened girl and questioned her softly. "What is all this about?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Milord! She pushed through!" one of the servants spat out quickly.

"We tried to stop her!" another panted.

The count looked back down to where the girl was once again groveling at his feet. "Lord have mercy! Please hear me, kind sir! I beg your help!"

The count raised an eyebrow. "What is it that you need of me?"

"I ask only for your healing, for I am deathly ill!"

Count Valentine shook his head and replied, "I am an alchemist, not a doctor. I am afraid I cannot help you."

"Nay, sir, but this is no ordinary ill. I am cursed! I fear for my unborn child!" she cried out, her desperation weighing heavily on the count's heart.

"Neither am I a priest. I... I am sorry, but—."

The girl screamed as if possessed. "It was the babe's father! He was the one that cursed me! Why?!" She huddled back down and caressed the bulge in her stomach, a coquettish smile springing briefly across her face. "All the ladies knew I was his favorite. But that night—." The smile vanished into horror as memories came flooding back to her. "That night, he was different. He was _wild_! He forced me to lay with him, even after he had exhausted me... And that awful sword of his!"

The count felt his heart skip a beat. "Sword?"

"Yes, that wretched filthy thing! It was _watching_ us! Yes, that is madness, I know. The terrible eye in its hilt is nothing but marble, after all... but I know there is some evil about it. I could feel it in my bones! He wasn't himself."

"Marble eye," the count mouthed, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"He cut me with it!" the girl moaned. She lifted her skirts to expose deep angry scars that marred her smooth porcelain thighs. The servants gasped at the wounds; the countess gasped at the girl's immodesty. Tears gushed from the prostitute's eyes. "It has cursed me, the sword has! I—I think it wants my unborn child! Even now the babe stabs at my womb. It pains me so!"

The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place as the words of the scroll repeated themselves in Valentine's head: _Happily it feeds thy lusts... thy sanity its price... thy progeny its seed. _"Thy progeny?" he whispered. Suddenly, he understood! _A **child**! Soul Edge is trying to claim a child!_ His dark eyes flashed towards his nervous servants, who stood taught as bowstrings, awaiting his orders. "Prepare her a bed at once," he commanded, ignoring the death glares from his wife. "And fetch me a priest."

* * *

For a month the young prostitute stayed in the Valentine mansion, her condition growing worse by the week. The local priest came to perform exorcism ceremonies when the demon seemed to hurt her especially badly. All the chanting and recanting of sins seemed quite ineffective and rather silly to the count, but even his own best elixirs failed to bring the life back into the girl's deathly cold body. It seemed unlikely that she would live to give birth to her child. 

Valentine stayed by her side through it all, always eager for the rare days when she was lucid enough to recount her terrifying experiences. Her descriptions were clear but frustratingly incomplete. There could be no question the sword she had encountered was indeed the accursed Soul Edge. But, she knew nothing of how it had come to its owner (one Cervantes deLeon, a Spaniard), nothing of its motivations or its effects, other than her lover's inexplicable violent behavior. The more information the count could glean from the girl's memories, the more his questions went unanswered and the surer he was that no good would come of the matter. Already he thought he could feel the sword's wickedness infecting the girl's womb and worried secretly just what kind of offspring she would deliver when the time was right. He hoped she would survive the birth, for he had come to pity and even admire the frail girl. Her name was Isabella, after her mother, whom she had never met; the women of the brothel were the only family she had ever known. The more time Valentine spent with the girl, the more convinced he became that her strong spirit deserved more honor than could be afforded by her unfortunate profession. If there was any way to give poor Isabella the life she deserved, the count intended to give it to her. But first she had to survive this ordeal.

"Oh! It—it hurts!" she cried into the night. "Please wake up, Milord. The pains are getting worse!"

The count drearily opened his eyes and sputtered to life."I'll go and get the priest," he yawned as he arose from his chair by her bedside. His brow knit in response to the terror-filled eyes that seemed to bulge from her sallow young face. "Do your best not to fret, child. I will spend every last bit of my energy to save you from this demon inside you. I only pray you take courage from that thought."

She nodded quickly, tears of pain evident in her eyes. "Thank you, I will, Milord."

Valentine knelt to kiss her fevered forehead and hurried out the door before she could see the tears forming in his own eyes.

After several moments, the girl's pains subsided somewhat... only to be replaced by an unnerving sensation that there was someone else in the room. "Who's there?" she called.

"Why... it's only me, love." The countess' pointy form emerged slowly from the shadows. "I heard your struggles and came to offer you something to drink," she smiled sweetly, quickly brushing a bit of suspicious-looking white powder off the saucer. "It's the very least I could do."

Isabella's worried expression instantly softened and she sighed, "Oh, Milady, you are so gracious." A smile flashed once again across the countess' face. Little did young Isabella know, there was poison in that smile.

Countess Valentine, like her husband, had remained ever-present during her visitor's month-long sojourn. Daily she lurked, obfuscated in shadow, powerless to do anything but watch from afar as the little trollop infiltrated her household and her husband. She shuddered as she witnessed the slut's sultry gazes drifting towards the man. She hated the way he held her hand in response. She nearly wretched each time he kissed her sinful skin. He had spent his life passionately devoted to his alchemist art, but the countess detested how easily this harlot bewitched him! The entirety of his days were spent at the loathsome creature's side, and one could only wonder whose bed he would prefer to warm at nights. Apparently he grew stupider as the days wore on. Could he not see that the best way to dispatch a demon was to destroy its host? Mrs. Valentine had already made up her mind to help her husband do what he obviously lacked the willpower to do... and this seemed to be the opportunity she had been waiting for.

Her eyes focused as intently as a hawk's as the girl gently accepted the cup. The countess' forehead produced beads of sweat as the younger woman slowly lifted the cup to her mouth. Her pale lips parted to accept its rim; the countess mimicked the gesture in anticipation. But there was to be no allayment. Isabella groaned as another wave of pain violently overtook her body. The countess rushed to steady the cup in the girl's shaking hand, silently cursing her fortune. _If this damn girl doesn't drink anything soon, the suspense will kill **me** instead!_

But Isabella placed the cup on her bedside table, panting, "Thank you, Milady, but I cannot. Not now."

The countess' heart plunged into her stomach. Desperately she stuttered, "Bu-but, the pains, lamb! It will soothe your restlessness!"

Isabella smiled up at her tiredly. "Perhaps you could give me a different kind of medicine, enough for a thirsty heart?"

The blood drained from the countess' face. She choked on her words, "Wh-what is it you n-need, child?"

The girl's smile remained, but the lines on her brow spoke of the uncertainty that plagued her heart. "The pains are coming regularly now... and more quickly. I did not tell your husband, but—I sense the time is drawing near, and... and..." She took the countess' hand and gazed directly into her eyes. "Please, Milady, I want to have courage. But I am frightened! Please ease my mind. Surely you can tell me what to expect... how to ease the pain when... when the time comes."

The countess stood in brief silence. "I... am afraid I cannot truthfully answer that question," she began. "For, you see, I have been unable to have children of my own." Her heart smoldered with rekindled hate at this girl, this slave to sin, whom Heaven had seen fit to bless with child all the while cursing her own life of faithfulness with a barren womb. This was intolerable. She subtly removed her hand from the depraved one's grip.

Isabella's eyes betrayed her surprise. "No children of your own?! But, surely that is an outrage against humanity!" The countess grit her teeth. What impudence this girl had, to remind her of her own sour fortune when it had pressed against her own mind day after day for nearly a decade! But Isabella continued. "I have long wondered what it is like to have a mother and father. I always imagined it to be terribly boring and restrictive—until I met you." She fell silent for a few moments. The countess purposely avoided her gaze. "What you and your husband have done for me, no one has ever done before. I am nothing but scum—a sinful blemish on this Earth. But to think..." She let out a small laugh. "To think that someone would take pity on me now, in my darkest hour... would care for me, knowing what I am, certain that I can give nothing in return..." She squinted into the countess' eyes, which reluctantly met her own. "I think now I shall die happy... for, finally..." She again took the older woman's hand. This time, Mrs. Valentine made no attempt to withdraw. "Finally, I know I am loved."

The countess blinked. It was as if the eyes of her heart had suddenly opened! The hand she clutched in her own did not belong to some wretched seductress, hell-bent on corrupting her home. No, this was no demonic concubine, but a fragile girl of fifteen, terrified in the face of simultaneous birth and death. Tears glistened in her dark eyes as she pleaded, "Milady, if should I die giving birth, please take my child as your own! I-I am certain th-there will be no better parents in this world than you."

The countess could bear it no longer. She gasped and hugged the small girl to her bosom, her own tears trickling down her face. "I wish you were my mother!" Isabella sobbed.

"Oh, Isabella, dear one! You will make it through this! I swear by my soul you _will_ live!"

Suddenly the girl stiffened and let out a shriek of pain. "What is it?!" the countess yelped but instantly sensed the warm wetness spreading across the bedsheets.

"We are here, Isabella," came the count's voice as he appeared in the doorway. The priest beside him added, "And not a moment too soon by the looks of things!"

"The baby is coming!" the countess shouted excitedly.

Within minutes, the entire household was bustling inside the small stuffy room, each frantically running about to do her part. The men stood out of the way, the priest booming out his prayers over the growing din, and the count feeling horribly out of place. Faces glistened in the candlelight, as the maidservants rushed to take care of the heaving girl.

"Miss needs more warm towels!"

"Give her air! You'll smother the poor child!"

"Do your best to push, my love, it'll all be over soon!"

"Quick, fetch her a drink of water!"

And above it all, came the screams of the agonizing girl. The countess squeezed her hand, girding her onward, crying as she screamed.

After a short but excruciating labor, the baby's first pitiful squeaks rang out through the household, followed by a communal shout of triumph! It was a girl, skin maroon and pruny with a shock of hair white as snow. The count beamed down at the squirming infant and whispered to the priest, "Look at that hair! If this is any evidence, I'd say we had quite a close call with that demon."

The priest nodded. "Yes, but the miraculously the mother is well. Look, her color is returning even now."

The countess gingerly rocked the baby in her arms. She couldn't help but smile as she brought the it over to its panting mother, bloodied servants all crowding in to get a good view of the angry bundle.

"Ooo, just look at those precious feet!"

"My that was difficult, wasn't it!"

"Come on love, keep up those cries!"

"What do you think she should be named?"

For the countess, the world seemed to grow silent and still as she gazed down into the pudgy little face, the adorable gaping toothless mouth and that strange white tuft of hair standing out so dramatically against the dark newborn skin. "I think 'Isabella' is the perfect name," she whispered with a smile.

"Isabella!" screamed a servant, shattering the countess' reverie. She jolted, realizing that the mother was the same color as her child and shaking violently, eyes rolled back in their sockets! The priest and count leapt into action, shoving the servants out of the way to get to the sick woman. The countess nestled the howling baby into the arms of another servant and tried desperately to reach for the girl.

"Isabella! Can you hear me?!" she screamed.

"Get back, woman! The demon is overpowering her!" the count snapped. But the countess strained for the girl's convulsing hand.

"No! Isabella! Come back to me!"

But it was too late. Within seconds, the girl was gone, leaving the crowd mortified and the baby yowling. The count shivered and gasped for breath, still gripping one of the girl's cold hands. He slowly turned to his wife—who shakily pointed at something beside him, tear-reddened eyes bulging out in horror. The next second, she fell unconscious to the ground.

"Milady!" one of the servants shrieked. In their haste to help the fallen countess, no one seemed to notice the small emptied cup that rested on the dead girl's bedside table.


End file.
